Along Came Jones
by CSI Clue
Summary: Nathan Gardner finds the new Art teacher to be just what he needs.
1. Chapter 1

The new school year had Nathan feeling cautiously optimistic; Susan was a senior now, and God willing, going to graduate. He himself was looking forward to teaching three periods of US History, one of AP history and one study hall instead of the soul-numbing tedium of administrative duties from last year.

And matters at Western Summit High overall were . . . better. Part of that was Bartlett of course, and part of it was the aftermath of Bartlett. Whatever the case, a summer of reflection and recuperation had helped too, and now with September marching forward, Nathan felt confident that life might finally have some depth to it again.

Therefore he wasn't prepared for the notice pinned above the teacher's mailboxes that directed all of the faculty to head over to the gym. Traditionally the teacher workdays at the start of school were for staff meetings and general room set-up; a chance to review the district policies and air out the facilities before the pimply angst-drenched student body descended for another year of learning. This break in routine made him suspicious.

"What the hell is this all this about?" he asked Newton Cortese, who coached football and ran the PE department.

"You got me," came the grumpy reply. Newt stood six foot three and had a voice that sounded as if it came from his ankles and had to force its way through a brillo pad in the process. "Probably some damned district pow-wow. Hope to Christ they're not thinking about putting those damned cameras back up. Summer good?"

"Pretty good, thanks," Nathan nodded. It had been, too. He and Suze had done a road trip to Far Rockaway, and taken care of a lot of issues between them in the process. It wasn't _all _worked out, but things were a hell of a lot better. They'd even sung together on the drive back, in fact.

"Good. Let's get this shit over with," Newt rumbled, and led the way into the gymnasium, shouldering through the glass doors, Nathan trailing behind him.

People loitered about in cliques and clusters, catching up and gossiping. Nathan recognized most of the faculty: Mitzi Rothberg, the nurse; Keith Wozenak, head of the math department; Gwen Henderson, head of Language Arts; Jorge Molino, chemistry teacher. There were a few new faces too, but before Nathan could ask around, a district suit came forward, officiously calling for everyone's attention.

"Thank you and welcome back," the suit intoned. "All right, let's get started, shall we? My name is Mitch Allen, and I'm here to lead you this morning through some exercises to help promote team building . . ."

This was met with hoots of disbelief and several cynical stares, Nathan's among them. Next to him, Newt snorted. "Aw Jesus! One little riot and now we're paying for it with_ this_ crap?"

"I'm guessing that the union won't let the district dock our pay," Nathan surmised quickly."Neither group wants the negative PR, but they DO want to send a message here."

"Yeah," Newt sourly observed. "And the message is 'Bend over, bitches.'"

"Something like that," Nathan sighed, feeling a sense of guilt returning.

In front of them, Mitch Allen was still talking, his expression annoyed at the response that greeted his announcement. "Look, I know you folks aren't enthusiastic about this, but today is mandated by the superintendant, and getting pissy about it isn't going to make the time pass any faster, so let's get through it and sign off. Pair up, people—"

Nathan looked at Newt, but at that moment Gwen swooped in and snagged the coach, her expression coy as she caught his sleeve. "Please?"

Newt shot an apologetic look at Nathan, who nodded and turned to look at the rest of the prospects now left.

A short blonde glanced up, and Nathan blinked, surprised when she winked at him. Moving forward, she held out a little hand; it was warm and strong.

"Jones," she murmured.

"Ah, Gardener," he replied, "Nathan Gardener. I'm sorry, I didn't catch your first name?"

"Just Jones," she replied with a quick smile.

Nathan cocked his head, but before he could inquire further, Mitch began directing traffic again, moving around. "Okay, this is a little exercise about reading body language; it's called two truths and one lie. Think of three things to tell your partner, and as the name implies, two should be true and one untrue. Put them in any order you like, and take turns seeing whether you can spot the falsehood. Don't go for outrageous here, because the point is to be able to pick up on the other person's unspoken cues . . ."

Nathan thought hard for a moment, following Jones to one side of the gym and standing awkwardly as she turned to face him. She had curly hair, he noted; past her shoulders, and slightly messy, in a shade of ash blonde.

"Would you like to go first?" she asked him.

"Sure," Nathan drew in a breath. "Uhm, do I just say all three things at once, or is there a space in between where you get to guess?"

"Good question," Jones sighed. She held up a finger and moved off towards Mitch, who looked as if he was fielding the same question from a few other teachers as well.

"One at a time, and give your reasons _why _you think it's the truth or the lie, people. The point is to hone those non-verbal cues here," came the impatient order. "Think of it as the ultimate bluff if you're the speaker, and the ultimate interrogation if you're the listener."

"Oh fun," Nathan muttered. Jones had returned, and was brushing a loose strand out of her eyes as she nodded for him to start. "Okay, first of all, I shot up a six hundred dollar boat last year."

That was true, he knew. The radio-controlled yacht had taken more than one bullet in the course of events last year, and why nobody had called the cops on him was still something Nathan was grateful about.

Jones stared at him a moment, her expression shifting from surprised to slightly delighted.

"True . . ." she murmured in a slow drawl. "Weirdly, that sounds like an honest admission."

Nathan nodded, fighting down the impulse to explain and feeling exceedingly foolish. Why the hell had he chosen to reveal THAT little tidbit, God only knew.

"I like a man with a wild streak," Jones told him.

Caught off-guard, Nathan stared at her and she waved her hand in a little encouraging gesture. He cleared his throat, thinking quickly.

"I love Cheerios," he blurted. "Not in milk, just straight out of the box in big disgusting handfuls, crunching them up and letting my cheeks puff out so I look like a chipmunk heading into November."

He watched her carefully, cheered by the slow disintegration of her neutral expression into a helpless snort of giggles. She tossed her head back, curls flying, and Nathan smiled for the first time all morning.

"T-T-True," she managed to gasp, "That's too detailed to be a lie unless you're teaching creative writing, Nathan—may I call you Nathan?"

"Sure," he nodded, surprised she'd asked. "And no, I teach history . . . now."

Again with the awkward confessions, Nathan chided himself. He braced himself for her inevitable question about what he used to do before, but Jones surprised him by not asking it.

"All right, Mr. Cheerio-cheeks, by default the last one is going to be your lie, so you might as well give it a shot."

Nathan caught her gaze, dimly aware that other pairs around them were laughing and finishing up their first rounds, so he braced himself once more.

"I am . . . happily married."

Jones kept her gaze linked with his, and said nothing, but it was the _way _she said nothing that left him feeling slightly bolstered. She nodded.

Then she blinked and drew herself up—what there was of her anyway—and spoke quietly.

"I was once stuck in an industrial-sized clothes dryer for two hours."

He could see it, actually. She was fairly compact and probably flexible as well. Nathan wanted like *hell* to know the circumstances, but given that Jones hadn't asked for details on _his _statements, it was only fair play to do the same for her.

"Yes of course you were," he nodded solemnly. "No argument with that admission."

She chuffed, blowing a strand of hair out of her eyes, looking slightly miffed. "No fooling you, huh?"

"I work," Nathan pointed out, "with teenagers. They've made me jaded in the world of stupid human tricks."

"Fine. I used to teach CIA agents," Jones sighed. "Humorless men who needed to be able to recognize a Mondrian from a Matisse, and learn that the Han Dynasty wasn't the lunch special at the Purple Pagoda. Cultural enrichment for better sleeper camouflage, they called it out at Langley."

"Lie," Nathan laughed, keeping his voice low. "That sort of thing would be handled by military intelligence through liaisons with cultural attaches. Besides, spies work with data and technology; they've got nothing to do with culture OR intelligence. So *you're* the one teaching creative writing?"

"I've said too much," Jones murmured with a twisted grin and drew in a breath, "All right, last one."

"Which by default is going to be the truth," Nathan nodded. "Go for it."

"Mmmmmmm. You'd make a terrible sexual fantasy," Jones told him in a low tone. "I'd_ never_ think of you in dirty ways late at night after a few glasses of wine."

"Wait, wait—!" Nathan spluttered, jolted by her tone and mischievous flutter of eyelashes. He pointed an accusing finger at her. "Okay, now _that's_--"

"A lie? See, here's the problem with this game, Nathan—you can guess, but my confirmations or denials—well, _those _can be lies too, right?"

She had him there, Nathan realized, his face red. He'd been so smug that he hadn't bothered to watch her as carefully as he should have, and now if what she said _was_ a lie . . .

Oh God.

"Okay, now that we've all broken the ice and had some time to consider our comments, you can see that communication is a big factor for your staff and students," Mitch interrupted. "Let's all move over to the auditorium and I'll introduce your new principal and the curriculum agenda before we get onto the next exercise."

Nathan thought. It was easy to slip into a seat in the semi-darkness and consider his circumstances for the moment. Newt dropped into the seat next to him, groaning under his breath. "She wants me, Nate. You have to run interference or by God Gwen's going to be stalking me _again_ this year."

"Get real," Nate muttered absently as he studied the back of a certain blonde head. "You two will do what you do _every_ year—play cat and mouse through Christmas, get drunk and sleep together after the holiday party, and then have lots of sex until right after Easter when either you or Gwen decide you're getting too serious and you need more space."

Newt sighed deeply. "That predictable, huh?"

"You're consenting adults and I'm not paid to provide therapy, Newt. All I'm saying is the two of you have it down to a science."

Whatever Newt might have replied died away as both he and Nathan watched someone step to the podium and clear his throat.

"Your principal for this year," Mitch Allen waved to the figure, "Curtis Sedgwick."

Nathan decided right then and there that he _really_ needed a drink.

*** *** ***

Jones listened politely to the welcoming remarks, but her thoughts lay elsewhere, and in any case she already knew the majority of the information being presented, thanks to good research. Western Summit wasn't huge—a student body of four hundred to be precise, with a middle of the road academic track and an upwardly mobile demographic for upstate New York. Nothing spectacular here, which was just what she wanted.

She knew all about Sedgwick too; a mediocre bureaucrat who'd been moved down from his previous glory as superintendant to keep an eye on Western Summit after their quote riot unquote last year.

And she knew a bit about both Charlie Bartlett and Nathan Gardner as well. Local news had covered the former principal while local gossip had filled her in about Bartlett.

Charlie, it seemed, had provided all sorts of therapy to all sorts of students, and while drugs were no longer in the scenario, the ongoing schedule of visits to the boy's restroom seemed to a given.

Several of the staff members she'd met actually approved of it.

"A lot of them need therapy anyway, especially Mr. Bivins," nurse Rothenberg had snorted around her cigarette. "That bully's smart and needs a socially acceptable goal in life—if being the office manager for an unlicensed, underage psychologist meets that, then so be it."

Jones heard that Charlie had managed a psychology internship over the summer, so chances were that he'd be coming into the school year even more confident than last, and she wondered how things would go.

As for herself, well, ducking out this far from Langley and Nick seemed like the best thing for everyone. He might find her, if he wanted to, but Jones hoped he wouldn't. She _needed _to get her fingers back into clay and her brushes into paint, otherwise she'd go nuts.

Again.

So here she was, renting a house on the edge of town and cautiously learning her way around. So far folks had been nice, and the few staff members Jones had met already were kind.

The only drawback was cleaning out the former art teacher's storage closets, which were beyond disgusting and probably toxic. Hefflemeyer hadn't been too concerned with cleanliness or labels, and twice Jones had considered calling the EPA about unmarked buckets.

Still, he'd left behind a lovely classroom, with huge windows and stone floors. Jones loved the way the light filled it.

She sighed, and her thoughts moved from the classroom to the man a few rows behind her in the auditorium; the man she'd found instantly attractive, much to her chagrin. Nathan Gardner looked as if he could use a friend, and that appealed to her greatly. Part of that was her nurturing instinct of course, and part of it was that it mirrored her own situation.

Jones smiled to herself and tried to concentrate on what the new principal was saying.


	2. Chapter 2

The schedule took some getting used to; Jones had a little trouble ending her lessons before the bell, but the students here were accommodating and on the whole, much nicer than her previous ones. She glanced through the door and around the moving bodies to catch a glimpse of Nathan, deep in discussion with two slightly sullen looking students.

He finished with them, sending the pair out into the hall, then looked both ways before crossing the traffic to stand at her doorway. "Getting the hang of it, I see."

"I will, eventually," Jones sighed. "Even though the bells—"

At that precise moment, the one over her doorway rang with bone-jarring shrillness and Jones recoiled, nearly jumping in surprise. Nathan was biting back a laugh; he didn't say anything, but the mirth in his eyes was apparent.

"—Still make you flinch, yeah," he finished with a straight face. "I see."

"Stop being a wise-ass," Jones muttered under her breath. "They're loud enough to chip enamel, in case you hadn't noticed."

"On a scale of decibels they're pretty potent, yeah, but it's a necessary evil when most of the students are going deaf from over-Ipod use," Nathan pointed out. "Have you gotten your dance assignment yet?"

Jones looked blank; Nathan shrugged and expounded. "Homecoming. Chaperone duty is mandatory, but we take shifts. I was just curious what you'd gotten."

"A dance?" Jones drew back a moment, feeling a sense of panic. "You're kidding."

"No, it's pretty straightforward. Wear a nice outfit; cruise around to stop our kids from swapping too many bodily fluids or ingesting any illegal substances. Think of it as your chance to be the Spoilsport Police," Nathan murmured. He was watching her carefully, and Jones tried not to blush.

"What if they won't listen to me?"

"You have the advantage of taking names and calling for backup, Jones. Part of what makes us the grown-ups, remember?"

"Sorry, sorry," Jones muttered, rubbing her eyes for a moment. "Still getting used to that concept. Is there a posting somewhere?"

"Email, but I think there's a copy over the mailboxes," Nathan gestured. "We can go check."

She felt self-conscious walking beside him in the nearly empty hallway down towards the main office. A few tardy students were bustling around, but when they stepped into the office, only Melanie was there, typing at a furious rate.

"Principal Sedgwick would like to see you in his office, Miss Jones," Melanie announced without looking up, "and your latest issue of History Quarterly is in, Mr. Gardener."

"Terrific," she hear Nathan murmur as she turned towards Sedgwick's door.

He was inside at his desk, scowling over something on his blotter and barely looked up to acknowledge her. "Miss Jones. Just checking in and seeing how you're getting along. Classes all right?"

She made no move to sit down, and quickly assessed the man's mood: frustrated and slightly tense—he was feeling nosy again.

"My classes are fine, thank you. I'm enjoying my semester," she countered, wondering where the conversation was going.

It didn't take long; Sedgwick wasn't the sort for subtlety. "I'm still waiting for your background check files from your previous employer, Miss Jones. I'm afraid HR is getting antsy, and they're putting the pressure on me."

"Ah," Jones murmured. "Did they call the number I provided?"

"They're waiting for physical files," Sedgwick sidestepped with bureaucratic smoothness. "I'm afraid they can't take your information over the phone, you know."

"I see," said Jones, who didn't. She gave a little shrug and tried to relax. "Well, I can call myself and light a fire under them; get things expedited. That should help."

"Yep," Sedgwick nodded, but Jones noted his eyes were on her chest. "Please do that. In the meantime, are we going to continue with this little subterfuge about your first name, or lack of one?"

"There _are _precedents in the district, Mr. Sedgwick, and the placeholder 'Just' serves perfectly well as we both know," Jones pointed out patiently. "Is that all? I really need to get back and work on some student quizzes---"

"The dance," Sedgwick grumbled. "You _are_ expected to chaperone of course, and I trust you to wear something . . . appropriate and_ conservative_ for the occasion?"

Jones gave a curt nod; her current wardrobe consisted of jeans—often paint-spattered—and an eclectic assortment of shirts ranging from pullovers to peasant blouses, depending on the weather. It was expected that an Art teacher would be quirky, and Jones didn't mind the casual wear at all, since it was a nice change from her dark suit and ID pass days.

"Yes sir, I _do_ own a dress," she told Sedgwick, and waited for his eyes to shift upwards to meet hers. They did, finally.

"Good. Remember, the key word is conservative," he intoned. "Maturity is our watchword."

"I'll remember that," Jones promised, and left, feeling glad to escape his scrutiny. She slipped out past Melanie and made her way to the mailboxes, where Nathan leaned against the wall, engrossed in his magazine.

"Maturity is our watchword," she told him with a straight face.

Nathan looked up over the rim of his glasses. "It is? Why don't I ever get these memos?"

"You're out of the loop," Jones murmured. "You need to sit in Curtis Sedgwick's office and have him check out your jahoobies while listening to tripe about your personnel file first."

"Jesus," Nathan muttered, tucking the magazine under his arm. "So a big dose of passive aggressive sexual harassment along with an ass-chewing is the requirement? I think I'll pass. And for the record,_ I_ never abused power that way when the big comfy chair was mine."

Jones nodded, fishing into her mailbox for the few letters there. "You wouldn't," she agreed, "you're . . . classier. So where's this schedule thing?"

"There," Nathan pointed with his chin, a little pink from her compliment. "We're with the ten PM team, along with Newt and Celia Barstow in Special Ed. By the time we're on, most of our predictable miscreants will be just beginning to attempt their mayhem. I'll bring my Maglite; they hate that thing."

"I could bring one too; we could play Mulder and Scully," Jones replied with a snicker.

"Let's let the aliens abduct Curtis," Nathan assured her. "I can't think of a more deserving candidate for an anal probe."

That made her laugh aloud, and when they stepped back into the hallway, Jones grinned. "Will there_ be_ many miscreants?"

"The usual suspects," Nathan sighed. "Count on a few minor drug incidents, some not-so-subtle boozing, and assorted hook-ups ranging from shifted bras all the way to homerun central. Pretty typical for Homecoming, really."

"Sounds sordid," Jones admitted. "I can't wait."

"Need a ride?" Nathan asked her.

*** *** ***

He couldn't quite figure out why he'd asked, except it probably had something to do with Sedgwick's idiocy, and the fact that Jones was forced to put up with the added hassle of working for the bastard.

Actually, that was a load of BS and he knew it.

Intuitively, Nathan understood that his offer to Jones stemmed more from the quick pangs of testosterone-fueled interest that flared through him whenever he looked at her than any nobility on his part. It annoyed him that now was neither the time nor place to deal with a mid-life attack of horniness, but _she'd _started it with her original lie.

Or potential truth.

Whichever it was. All Nathan knew now was that whenever he happened to glance out his classroom door and across the hall, he had a good chance of seeing Jones dancing around, lecturing on Mesopotamian art, or explaining the dynamics of color composition. If he was truly lucky—and it had happened a few times—she might either stretch up and reveal her trim stomach under a slightly too short shirt, or, even more salaciously, drop something and retrieve it.

God, the first time she'd bent over, presenting the view of her shapely ass neatly outlined in snug denim, a gorgeous package just _begging_ to be pinched, Nathan had fallen right over out of his tipped chair, much to the concern and amusement of his second period World History class.

Their backs were to the open door, so none of them had seen what had thrilled him, but a few of the older students probably suspected, given their grins. He'd worked a bit harder to keep his attention on the Byzantine Empire and less on going caveman all over the unsuspecting blonde across the way.

Most of the time it seemed to be working, but there were slip-ups now and then—

Like offering her ride to the dance.

She didn't seem to be afraid of him though, and nodded. "Sure. Quarter to ten, then?"

"Um, sure," Nathan shot back, a quick thrill running through him. "Where do you live?"

As if he didn't know.

"It's out on Bochner Road, just past the cemetery. 1709, the big green house," Jones told him in an off-hand way. "I appreciate it; thanks."

"No problem, Nathan assured her. "You might want to work on your 'not amused' face between then and now. The kids expect it, and I'd hate to have you let them down."

Jones made the attempt, glaring at Nathan, who studied it carefully, and then shook his head. "Nope. Not stern enough. Try to look like you just caught someone putting a mustache on the Mona Lisa," he suggested.

"If they added eyebrows I'd approve," Jones sighed. "I'll keep practicing. And I'll try to get something appropriately conservative for tonight."

Nathan nodded, although he wanted to tell her not to bother; she certainly wore nothing conservative when he thought about her. Fantasized was closer to the truth, but at least he knew that was normal.

It had been a long time since normal, Nathan admitted to himself, and it felt good. It felt _right_ to harbor lustful thoughts again even if they never panned out.

He made a show of checking his watch. "Okay, Quarter to ten, place by the cemetery, conservative. Am I forgetting anything?"

"What's the watchword?" Jones impishly demanded, breaking away from him to head out the door. Nathan watched her go, his mouth twisted in a bemused smirk.

"Jones," he murmured to himself.

*** *** ***

Jones knew what to wear. She chose the grey tube dress and the jacket, figuring both the colors and the cut would give her that sought-out air of respectability without hampering her style *too* much. In the bathroom she debated putting her hair up and decided against it—the effort wouldn't last anyway, and she wanted to be comfortable.

The thought of Nathan made her _un_comfortable, but in a mixed sort of way. Jones checked the medicine cabinet to make sure she'd taken her medication, and then closed it again and looked in the mirror at herself, feeling a tiny prickle of anxiety along with a flush of anticipation.

God, she hadn't been out in the dark in ages, not since the early winter nights last year. Not that it was going to be difficult, really—she had a flashlight, and the dance was sure to be well-lit, and there would be lots of other people around, so it was going to be _fine._ Her stomach tried to argue the point, but Jones scowled, and made herself drink a big glass of water.

She wandered back out to the living room and looked it over, then paced a bit, trying not to let her nervousness show; after all this was an official school duty, not anything else. Not a date of course, even though this was after hours and she was dressed nicely. Jones shot a glance towards the front windows and the sweep of headlights blinded her for a second.

Deliberately, she waited, NOT racing for the front door, and an involuntary case of the giggles threatened to spill out, so she bit her lip to calm down. By the time the doorbell rang, Jones had herself composed, and went to open it.

"Hi, is this where Dana Scully lives?" Nathan asked, holding up a Mag Lite almost large enough to qualify as a baseball bat. Jones giggled, waving him inside. He looked nice, in a silver tie with dark shirt and suit.

"You should be waving that in front of a movie theater marquee," she observed. "Do you need a permit for it?"

"I'm outside the law," Nathan replied. "I believe in students experiencing the full interrogation experience tonight."

"They may need sunscreen," Jones agreed. "Let me get my purse."

She climbed into the passenger seat before Nathan could get the door for her, but Jones knew he'd intended to, and that little courtesy touched her. It was a clean car, and the scent of coffee lingered in it.

"Nice neighborhood," Nathan pulled out of the driveway carefully. "I'm guessing it's . . . quiet."

"Gated, too," Jones pointed out, and couldn't help giggling. She noted Nathan grinning at that.

"I'm sure you don't get many door-to-door people either. At least, I hope not."

"Not too many," Jones replied. "I think it's been a while since the house was rented, but I don't mind. The fireplace works, and I've got a patio with good light for painting."

"Oils, right?"

And they were off. Jones couldn't help herself; Nathan asked all the right questions and actually seemed _interested _in the subject. It was such a far cry from her last evening out with a man, and by the time they pulled into the parking lot of Western Summit, she felt slightly foolish for having dominated the conversation.

"Um, sorry about that," she apologized, feeling the heat in her face. The streetlights bathed the parking lot in a pinkish tone, but the interior of the car was dim. Next to her, Nathan shook his head.

"Are you kidding? It's a genuine thrill to have a real conversation about a topic that matters. And I'd love to see your work. Seriously."

"Right," she muttered, but smirked all the same. "Maybe someday."

Nathan looked as if he wanted to press the point, but Jones slid out of the car and looked towards the gym as she straightened her jacket. Music was blaring, and little groups of students were outside the main doors, chatting and laughing, looking slightly rumpled in their finery.

As she and Nathan approached the doors, a few called out greetings to them. Nathan nodded, slipping into that slightly more formal mode.

"Bivens, Miss Culliver, Wachowski," he murmured, already giving them the gimlet eye. Jones watched the three he named nod back quietly, their rowdiness momentarily abated. She followed behind Nathan, and gave a nod to the students, then turned her attention on the gym as she passed through the double doors.

The dance committee and the caterers had done a marvelous job in transforming Western Summit's gymnasium into a spangled Under the Sea wonderland of blue and green drapes, with fish and stars as a theme all throughout. The music was loud, but that was expected, and the rumbly crush of dancers at the far end made the wooden floor creak a bit.

"Homo Semi-Sapiens," Nathan muttered into her ear. "Welcome to the Jungle."

That was precisely the song playing, and Jones snickered. Nathan pointed to one corner where a few teachers were standing and they went over, exchanging greetings with the others.

"Wow, in an actual tie—I hope we get this moment for posterity," Nathan murmured to Newt, who looked uncomfortable as he tugged on it.

"Pointless crap. I understand the purpose of a shirt and pants and shoes, but this damned thing--" Newt complained. "Nothing more than an over-priced noose."

"They give women something to grab and pull you in closer," Celia volunteered, grinning. "Don't you watch the movies?"

"That only happens in chick flicks," Newt argued. "In _guy_ movies, the first thing the hero does is ditch the tie."

Both Jones and Celia looked at Nathan, who nodded wryly. "The man speaks the truth, ladies. Your basic action flick has no room for neckties."

"I saw this movie once, with a man and a woman," Jones murmured. "And_ they_ used the necktie for something very different. Of course, that was the only clothing they had---"

She managed this with a straight and overly-innocent expression, but Celia broke into crow-like guffaws, her grey dreadlocks shaking as she did so. Even Newt was grinning, and Jones didn't dare look at Nathan for a moment.

"O-kay, maybe there _is_ a use for a necktie," Newt conceded with a grin. "And maybe you'd better give me the title of that film—Just for reference, you know."

"It had subtitles," Jones smiled.

Still chuckling, Celia drew herself up and shot a look around the dance floor. "Time to make a circuit, folks. Nate, you and I should take the bathrooms; Newt, you and Jones see what's going on in the parking lot, okay?"

Reluctantly, Jones followed Newt out to the parking lot again, shivering a bit at the shadows. Newt shot her a sidelong glance. "Still getting grief from Sedgwick about your name?"

"Y-yeah. I think he's getting resigned to it though. Not really broad-minded, is he?"

"The man still thinks _Communism_ is a threat," Newt growled. "That and fluorination in drinking water. Oh my, I think I see a Toyota that's a-rocking---"

Striding over, Newt moved to pound on the roof of the car, leaving Jones to watch with distracted amusement from under the safety of the street light.


	3. Chapter 3

Nathan listened to Celia roust the girls smoking in the bathroom and took a mental moment to reconsider Jones. She was worth reconsidering, particularly tonight, in that strapless dress and jacket combo. Her hair was driving him crazy; he wanted to touch it, run his fingers through those bushy curls and play with them and that was a bad thing for a whole lot of reasons.

Right now he couldn't think of any, but he was sure there were a few.

It wasn't all physical, either, Nathan acknowledged to himself wryly. The woman was intelligent and that counted big in the scheme of things. She had a true calling for art; that was clear, and her enthusiasm for her vocation was rare among his colleagues. Jones was bright, witty and well-liked; all qualities that played in her favor.

He wished he could stop focusing on the physical, but it had been a long damned time since anyone had send a little tingle through his system. It wasn't as if his libido had died after the divorce, but the drive _had _been turned way down as a consequence, and between the stress of the job and the stress of raising Susan it had just sort of stayed that way. Nathan knew he'd drowned out most of his urges with a lot of whisky, and while he didn't do that anymore, sometimes it was hard to resist the habit.

Still, he wryly acknowledged, the blow-up last spring with both Susan and Charlie had done a lot to get him back on track, and while things weren't perfect, they were a hell of a lot better, with potential towards . . . well, towards much more.

Two girls rocketed out of the bathroom, grousing, followed by a triumphant Celia. She looked over at Nathan and gave him a pleased look.

"I can't believe the mouths on those two, honestly! You'd think they lived in a family of longshoremen or something!"

"I think Sophie Alladorando does, actually," Nathan replied with a straight face. "They probably supply her with the unfiltered Camels, too."

"Whatever," Celia snorted. "If they think they can blacken their lungs on _my _watch they've got another thing coming. What about the boys?"

"Lots of pissing, bragging and zit-squeezing," Nathan reported. "Business as usual."

Celia made a face. "TMI, Nate. Let's check out the catering; I'm starving."

Halfway through a plate of shrimp puffs, Nathan spotted Newt and Jones coming in, and Newt looked far too pleased. As the four met up again, the coach announced. "I single-handedly prevented two pregnancies and a parking brake failure—think Sedgwick will put me in for a commendation?"

Celia shook her head. "No, but if you have video, we might have the makings of a nice blackmail case."

"It was scary to watch," Jones admitted. "There's no interruptus quite like that of your gym teacher pounding the hell out of the roof of your car."

"I forgot to bring the bullhorn; sue me," Newt snickered. "And anyway, all I've done is a temporary setback. They'll be at it again by tomorrow."

"But not in a car," Nathan sighed. "Shrimp puff?"

They ate and chatted, and periodically, Newt excused himself to do a circuit of the parking lot. By eleven thirty things were winding down, and the caterers and photographers had packed up. The last reluctant stragglers were making their way out as the DJ began playing slow oldies.

Nathan wanted to ask Jones to dance. It was stupid, because he wasn't any good at dancing, and trying to do so in front of his students would be _asking _for snide comments by the next class, but there was something about the way she swayed a little to the music that made the impulse rise within him. He cleared his throat and moved closer to her; she caught his eye and went slightly pink.

"You're serious?" she murmured, looking torn between yes and no.

"We don't_ have_ to be right in the center of the dance floor," Nathan assured her. "Believe me, I'm good right here off to the side."

"I bet you are," she shot back, and then snorted a giggle. Nathan rolled his eyes behind his glasses and reached out for her hand with more courage than he actually had.

"Come on, humor me through this phase of my mid-life crisis."

She did, slipping into his arms and Nathan felt that anything anyone said would vaporize through the intensity of his resulting glow. Jones felt good. Jones felt _very _good; just the right height and warmth in his careful embrace, and those curls were only inches from his nose now.

"You're going to have to lead," Nathan mumbled. "I really suck at dancing."

"Mmmmmm," came the soft response. "Me too. Let's just . . . sway."

"Good with it," he murmured back, fighting to keep his hands from exploring. It wouldn't do for him to get caught putting into practice what he'd been busting others for all night.

Perfume too—something light and honey-like . . .

"You're sniffing my hair," Jones murmured.

"No I'm not."

"Yes, you were," she replied, but didn't sound too upset about it.

"You can't prove it; anyway, you smell pretty nice, so it's not really a big deal," Nathan muttered, feeling embarrassed. It was difficult to think straight when Jones was this close, when all his senses were clamoring for him to just reel her in and lay a good one on those lips.

Given the place and time though, it wasn't going to happen, all fantasies aside.

"You smell nice too," Jones informed him in a soft voice. "Aftershave, huh?"

Nathan made a little hum of agreement, feeling nearly overwhelmed with bliss. He imagined he must look like a tomcat after a good long hit of catnip, and the mental picture made him fight not to snicker.

Then Jones dropped the bombshell. "Newt asked me out."

*** *** ***

She was trying to make conversation and get her mind on anything other than the warm nearness of Nathan. Lord he felt good, and smelled good and if there weren't so many other people around Jones knew she'd really enjoy the dancing.

Now Nathan was looking at her as if she was out of her mind.

"Are you out of your mind?" he asked in a slightly strangled tone.

"Not currently . . . I don't think," Jones added as an afterthought. "What's the problem? Newt's single, and he seems nice, and although we work at the same place I don't foresee---"

"Newt is in an ongoing on again-off again relationship with Gwen Henderson," Nathan carefully murmured. "Although it's currently in the off stage, it's only a matter of a month or so before they're back together."

Jones gave a reluctant nod; the song was coming to an end and she didn't really want to step out of his arms. "I know, but right now it's off and to be honest . . ."

"Yes, to be honest . . ?" Nathan prompted her, looking slightly stern now. The glasses didn't help; Jones loved how they made him look more serious than he was.

"Well, he _asked _me," she shrugged. "Not like I've had a lot of offers lately, and I really like Italian food."

Jones slowly let go of Nathan as the music faded to a close. He looked slightly blank.

"If you wanted Italian, _I _could have taken you to dinner," he managed, finally. "Pesto. Pasta. Puttanesca. Parmesan. Pizza. Pocomo."

"Pocomo isn't Italian, Nathan, it's a Beach Boys song," Jones smothered a giggle.

"Whatever. The point is—"

But Nathan never got the chance to make his point because Newt swept over and swung the flashlight in a wide arc. "Let's start making a last check of the johns so I can lock up the damned place."

Jones reluctantly let go of Nathan and began to head towards the bathrooms, Celia moving in step with her. They checked the stalls and closed it up, then closed the back doors of the Gym. Jones saw Susan and Charlie making their way out. Nathan nodded to them; Susan reached out to give her father a quick hug before she and Charlie stepped out into the parking lot.

She liked that; it was nice to see a teenager willing to show some familial affection, even if it was only in passing. She had Susan in her third period and found her to be a bright self-possessed young woman with a lovely wry sense of humor.

Just the sort of daughter for a man like Nathan.

It wasn't until she was back in the car with him that he spoke again, his tone flat. "Where's he taking you? Just . . . curious."

Jones was tempted to lie; it was a reflex she fought as she drew in a breath. "The Noodle Doodle."

Nathan shot her an incredulous sidelong glance. "Please tell me that's a joke. Newt can't possibly believe the Noodle Doodle is Italian. It's about as Italian as Stockholm."

"I don't know about that," Jones admitted. "He asked if I liked Italian food and I said yes. Not a big deal, you know?"

"Noodle Doodle," Nathan drawled out despairingly. "Prepare to be under-impressed."

They reached her house and Jones fought a shiver; she'd forgotten to leave a light on, and the darkness seemed to loom around the porch. This time she waited, and Nathan caught her hesitation. He said nothing as he got out, went over and opened her door. Just taking his hand helped a lot, and Jones forced herself to relax, climbing out. She didn't let go all the way to the porch, and Nathan didn't seem to mind. Once there she managed to unlock the door and reach in along the left side for the switch.

The porch flooded with light, and Jones bit back a giggle at the sight of Nathan, blinking.

"I feel like I should burst into song," he announced. "Opening bars to 'Cabaret' or something."

"Nathan—" She wanted to tell him, but couldn't. It still seemed stupid, no matter what Doctor Rohm kept telling her. "I . . . um, I had a good time tonight, even if it _was_ extracurricular."

"Me too," he told her easily. "Most fun I've had in rousting miscreants in a long time."

"Tough talk for a nice guy," Jones replied, grinning. They stood staring at each other for a long moment and then she leaned over and lightly kissed his cheek. "See you Monday, ya brute you."

"Yep," Nathan assured her. "Will do."

She slipped inside and peeked through the little side window, watching as Nathan jauntily made his way back to the car, and she giggled at his body language.

Then Jones turned and turned on the hall light, beginning the relay into the house.

*** *** ***

Nathan felt better. He managed a relaxed weekend, only lightly grilling Susan about rolling in at three in the morning ("Dad, you know who I was with, where we were AND I had my cell, so stop with the fake outrage.") and even got the chapter six tests graded within a reasonable amount of time. Newt called, but Nathan let the machine get it, not wanting to re-hash the dance, or worse, hear about the date.

The peck on the cheek was that did it for him. Nathan hadn't expected it, but that simple little gesture gave him a tiny sense that he was on the right track, and furthermore, the track would ultimately lead to Jones.

It was a matter of faith, and Nathan hadn't had a lot of faith in anything in a long time, particularly in himself.

Sometime in the early hours of Saturday morning, he dreamed of Jones too; a dream that started innocently enough and quickly morphed into something much more physical, even if the exact details were hazy. Nathan hadn't had anything like that happen in years, and in the morning he couldn't stop fighting an embarrassed smirk even as he changed the sheets.

Newt was in a good mood, loitering at the coffee machine and recounting his victories at the dance to anyone who would listen. Nathan managed to snag a coffee behind the crowd and nearly made his escape, but Newt spotted him before the clean getaway.

"Gardner," he called, and moved over. "Not answering your phone anymore?"

Nathan gave a vague wave of his coffee mug. "Grading. I get in the zone, don't want to lose the momentum. You're a coach, though—you might not be able to relate to paperwork."

"Hey, hey—who spit in _your_ Cheerios?" Newt replied dryly.

Nathan sighed. "Sorry—just a lot of mediocre work in huge blocks. What's up?"

Newt brightened. "Bruins are having tryouts this weekend, and I'm taking Jones out on Friday."

"Going to have her audition as a receiver? She looks fast, but I don't think those artistic types can take a hit."

Newt snorted. "Two different events. I'm pretty sure she's not the type to watch city league football, even if yours truly makes the squad."

"I dunno—little skirt, pom-poms . . ." Nathan replied, and immediately regretted sharing the image. Jones as a cheerleader had spectacular potential, and he didn't need Newt glomming onto that.

"Too much experience with _real_ cheerleaders for that one to work for me," Newt smirked. "Now as a hottie little nurse, maybe—"

For a second neither man said anything nor met gazes. Nathan made a turn into the hallway with the mailboxes and Newt followed him, finally speaking up again. "About Friday . . ."

"What about Friday?" Nathan tried for nonchalant, but there was a testy edge to his question. Newt didn't seem to catch it, though.

"So what is Jones into? I'm not one to chitchat about art, and you're friends with her. What's safe to talk about?"

Nathan turned, giving Newt a dust-dry glare. "Do I _look _like an advice columnist? Jesus, you've been on dates before, Newt."

"Not with people other than Gwen!" came the protest, "And you know Jones."

"On your own on this one," Nathan warned, and pulled papers out of his mailbox slot, adding, "just be yourself."

"Okay, no need to be _evil_," Newt grumbled, and began to fish out his own mail.

*** *** ***

The week went by slowly. Nathan handed back the tests, consoled the depressed ("Open book works best if you actually USE the book, guys.") and tried to busy himself as much as possible.

Still, when Jones stepped out from her room between periods and waved, it was impossible to resist, and he joined her, weaving between moving clusters of students as they migrated.

"I need paper," Jones told him, looking slightly frantic. "Anything you've got. Someone raided my stockroom and now all I have is colored construction paper. I can't get any student over the age of FOUR to take sketching seriously on colored construction paper!"

"Yeah, that could be tough," Nathan nodded, thinking hard. "I've got some cardstock stashed away, and some flat-folded feeder paper—good enough?"

"A Godsend," Jones murmured gratefully. "I'll pay you back, I swear."

"I'm going to want whiteboard markers, anytime I need them," Nathan murmured, leading Jones back to his classroom, "and one emergency class coverage, for openers."

"Man, you drive a hard bargain, Gardner," Jones muttered, but she grinned as she did it. "If I wasn't so desperate, I'd haggle."

Nathan opened the little walk-through storage room he shared with the janitor and began to rummage on one of the shelves. Jones ducked under his arm and checked them as well; for a stunned moment Nathan realized she was in his arms, although facing the same direction he was.

"Scantrons, composition books, binder clips . . . geez, running your own stockroom in here?"

"Be prepared," he murmured, trying to sound normal and almost succeeding. Jones was so damned close now, and smelling as wonderful as she did before.

"I thought that was a Boy Scout motto," she called over her shoulder, grabbing a thick stack of feeder paper from a lower shelf, "and _you_, buddy, are no Boy Scout."

Jones rose and turned, practically nose to nose with Nathan now, the paper in her arms. He blinked, not moving, taking in the sweet nearness of her.

"I . . . what were we talking . . . about?" Nathan mumbled.

Jones, too, seemed to be caught in the moment. "Uhhhh, paper . . . scout . . ."

Even in his befuddled state Nathan knew that made _no_ damned sense at all, but this close to Jones it didn't matter because GodYEShewasgoingtokissher------

The bell rang. Jones jumped, her nose bumping his, HARD, but beyond that sudden spike of pain, Nathan felt her mouth meet his in a quick jolt that thrilled the rest of him. She wriggled away, moving out of the storage closet with a strangled, "See you," leaving him standing there, slightly befuddled.

Students were pouring into the class now, and he pushed his glasses up, then stepped out, trying to look confident.

"Ew, Mr. Gardner, what happened to your _nose_?" came a squeal from Jenna Gonzales in the first row. He reached up and wiped the trickle of blood, then half-turned to reach for the box of tissues on his desk.

"Let this be a lesson, ladies and gentlemen—never get between an Art teacher and her supplies," Nathan quipped quickly, wiping his face.

That got a laugh, just as it was supposed to, and he directed them to the assignment on the board, his actions on autopilot as he tried to figure out why even a smacked nose felt like heaven.

She'd clocked him, yeah, but that part was an accident. Jumpiness from the bell. The _other _part . . . Nathan wanted to be objective and mature about it all as he tried to analyze matters.

Natural attraction.

Proximity.

Gratitude for . . . paper.

_That_ was stretching things a bit, and Nathan snorted, feeling his nose clog a bit. He wasn't going to read anything into it, nope. Just a matter of one happenstance moment, sweet, but without any real significance--

He hated himself for the hope. Nathan tried to push it out of his mind and focus on the here and now. Facts, dates, cause and effect.

Of course, with a kiss--_that _kiss—cause almost didn't matter because the effect was to drive him up the wall, clearly, and in that case, Jones had succeeded.

With a mental sigh, Nathan turned back to the aftermath of the American Revolution.


	4. Chapter 4

Noodle Doodle wasn't Italian, but it was interesting, in a laminated menu and cartoon character sort of way. Jones stared at the displays along the walls as Newt slurped his way through a Noodle Mountain Special and eyed her plate as well. She toyed with her fork, and tried not to laugh as across the dining room, 'Lady of Spain' rolled out from the wandering accordionist's instrument.

"Quite a place, huh?" Newt managed after swallowing his mouthful.

"Yes," Jones agreed instantly, suppressing a laugh. "It's . . . memorable."

"Yep, one of Gwen's favorites."

Jones sighed a little and pushed part of her Roly-Poly ravioli around, feeling a pang of regret. Nathan had been right on a lot of levels, and even though (_don't you dare think about that kiss_, her mind ordered) the food wasn't too bad; the restaurant wasn't exactly what she'd expected.

It was just so . . . kitsch, Jones admitted to herself. Noodle Doodle played up the collections of noodle boxes nailed to the walls, and the recipe cards for everything from spaghetti to Spamaroni were added haphazardly between them.

The color scheme of pasta beige and pesto green didn't help things either.

"So . . . you came here often?"

"All the time," Newt replied. "Gwen can't cook worth a damn beyond Pop-tarts and microwave dinners, so we sort of made this our default dinner out. Watched her try and make soup once—she managed to burn the water."

That made Jones grin a bit, and she looked over at Newt, who was lost in thought for a moment. "You really have a thing for her, huh?"

"Yeah," he admitted. "She puts the doodle in my noodle for sure. Not that you're not nice and all," Newt went on hastily, "but you know how it is when you've got something good with somebody, right?"

Jones nodded. "I understand. So, exactly why am _I_ here instead of Gwen?"

Newt sat back and set his fork down, his expression troubled. "It's . . . complicated. See, Gwen's out of town, but we didn't really say goodbye on the best of terms, and I can't show up here alone without it getting back to her and I'm sure as _hell _not going to let her think I was pining for her, so I figured if I brought _you _then she might see that I'm not moping."

"Even though . . . you are."

"Exactly!" Newt gve a glum nod. "According to my, er, unofficial consultant, both Gwen and I have commitment phobias that play off each other, and we don't communicate well. Or as well as we could, he says. Thought that was a load of BS, but it's sorta starting to make sense to me now."

Jones worked to keep from smiling. "You consultant sounds like he knows what he's talking about. Did he suggest anything therapeutic?"

Newt made a face. "The little snot suggested we take a cooking class together. Said it would help us bond since neither one of us is what you call kitchen-oriented."

"Sounds like a good idea, actually," Jones ventured softly. "At the very least, you'd each have a skill afterwards."

Newt gave a hugely put-upon sigh. "What if she says no? What if we blow up the stove?"

"That could happen," Jones agreed, "but the alternatives are worse."

"Yeah," Newt grumbled knowingly, "like losing her for good, I know. Still, cooking--" he gave a helpless noise.

Jones cocked her head. "Well, you could do it in the nude. There are cookbooks for that sort of thing."

The look in Newt's eyes brought the repressed giggle out of her; he looked absolutely predatory now. "Oh *that* has possibilities. You're serious about the cookbooks?"

"Yes," Jones told him, "Quite a few. I had a friend who did the sketches for one years ago and she told me there were about eight she knew of that specialized in cuisine au naturale, so even if you and Gwen only got to the appetizers, you'd still be, um, making progress."

Newt pointed a finger. "First the whole necktie movie and now this—I can see why Gardner's got the hots for you, Jones. You're messing with his hormones."

She looked startled, and blushed, not really sure what to say, and feeling slightly pleased at Newt's assessment. "What did Nathan say to you? Exactly?"

"It's not what he said," Newt rumbled, "It's how he acts, especially when you're around or your name gets brought up. He works really hard at ignoring you, which is the clear and obvious clue that you're on his mind a lot."

"Really?" Jones asked, feeling both embarrassed and pleased.

Newt shook his head in mild disbelief. "You did not know this? How could you not know this? You're a woman; you're supposed to have that emotional radar that most of my gender is missing."

"I lack the Oprah gene," Jones teased. "Damn, I feel like a teenager now. Nathan . . . likes me?"

"Yeah, Nathan likes you," Newt snorted, and shot a look at her plate. Obligingly Jones pushed her ravioli towards him and gratefully, he scooped it onto his empty plate. "The problem is he's not exactly enthused about getting back into the dating pool, thanks to his bitch of an ex. And that's not gossip on that last, by the way; that's fact."

"Oh," Jones murmured. She waited, saying nothing. It was a technique she'd picked up from her previous job, and a good one, because she knew if you left things silent, the other person usually rushed in to fill it out of sheer nervousness.

Newt chewed ravioli and continued. "Yeah, Donna did a number on him, heart and head. She had a hysterectomy about eight years back and decided to blame Nathan for everything crappy in her life. Turns out she also had some mental issues, and kept refusing to take any medication for them, too. He ran ragged trying to keep her happy, and finally she decided to sleep around to justify a divorce. Fought Nate for custody, but Susan didn't want anything to do with her mom by then and stood by her dad. Last I heard, Donna was trying to seduce the family court judge to get a new hearing."

"God," Jones murmured, feeling a wave of horrified sympathy. "That's terrible!"

"Yeah. Most folks around here know about it all to some degree, and the majority are on Nate's side. The only two good things Donna ever did were to have Susan and to move to Rogersville. Of course, Nate was pretty worn out by the time he got promoted to run Western Summit, and I know he was drinking a lot, but just having his ex seventy miles away was a plus. Then we had that damned incident with the surveillance cameras, and Nate was in the middle again, trying to keep the kids happy and Sedgwick off his ass. Telling you, Jones,_ never_ go for a job in administration. It totally sucks. Ready to go?"

"Uh, yeah," she agreed, her thoughts caught up in all that Newt had said.

He set his fork down and leaned over, eyes serious. "Look, I probably shouldn't have told you all this. I'm not a gossip, but Nate's a good guy who's had a hard time. I know he likes you, and that's not easy for him considering what he's been through. Just—be easy on *him,* okay?"

Jones reached over and patted one of Newt's big shoulders, smiling crookedly. "Who's got the Oprah gene now, huh?"

He had enough of a sense of humor to chuckle. "Yeah? Well why the hell is it I can be sensitive with everyone but Gwen? Guess we all got issues, huh?"

Jones nodded, feeling slightly guilty.

*** *** ***

Nathan was trying to lose himself in the latest biography of Jefferson and not succeeding. He'd done all his usual Saturday errands and chores, resolutely avoiding any thought of Jones, Newt or their supposed date the night before. Mercifully Newt hadn't called, and Nathan was glad of that; no matter how the date had gone, he really didn't want to hear about it.

Even the weather seemed to reflect his mood, he thought sourly, sullenly overcast all day and now stormy as hell. Occasionally the lights flickered, and the low rumble of thunder rose over the steadily falling sleet. Nathan turned a page, glad that Susan was off at Ellen's for the night, probably blowing everyone away with a Karaoke rendition of '_It's Raining Men,_' and having a good time.

She deserved a good time, Nathan knew. College was looming before the two of them, and although he didn't want her to worry about him, Nathan knew his daughter would. She was responsible; more than a seventeen year old should be, and he was grateful for _anything_ these days that let her simply be a kid--like the sleepover.

The doorbell rang. Startled, Nathan looked at the window and then the clock, before getting up. He wasn't expecting anyone, and the unease grew as he made his way to the front door to check the peephole.

He blinked at the sight of bedraggled blonde curls under a partially collapsed umbrella, and undid the chain before yanking the door open. "Jones?"

"H-hi. Can I come in?" she shivered, shaking water off her hair and looking utterly uncomfortable. Nathan ushered her in, taking the ruined umbrella, which dripped melting ice onto the carpet in big wet spots.

"God, woman, don't you listen to the weather reports? This stuff's supposed to freeze over. What the hell are you doing driving out in this crap?" he chided gently, no anger, only concern in his tone. Without conscious thought he pulled one of his old sweaters out of the hall closet and handed it to her. "Get that on; I'll make something hot. Coffee? Tea?"

"Tea'd be good," Jones agreed, her voice muffled as she pulled off her wet coat and slid the sweater on. "Here."

Nathan took a dripping wet bag from her and peeked inside, where two reams of damp paper sat. "Oh. You didn't have to do that."

"Wanted to. I was getting art supplies today, and since your place is on the way home . . ." she trailed off, looking embarrassed. Nathan understood how transparent the excuse was and for a moment he stared at her, feeling a pang of delight mixed with nervousness.

The power flickered. Jones stared back, her hair darker now that most of it was wet, her eyes rapidly blinking. "Okay?"

"Okay," he murmured reassuringly. "Very. Come on in and get warm."

He padded into the kitchen, glad that most of the dirty dishes were in the machine, and rummaged through the cupboard for tea. Nathan couldn't remember if there was any; sometimes Suze had some of the herbal fruit brands around . . .

"Um, there are towels in the bathroom. Is peach okay?" he asked after fishing out a few packets and scanning the labels.

"It's fine," came the reply from a few rooms away. "I won't stay long—"

"No rush," Nathan shot back, eyeing the storm outside with a sense of worry. "I'm not in the middle of anything major here."

By the time Jones made her way into the kitchen, Nathan had a saucepan full of water on one of the burners, and was fishing around in another cupboard for clean mugs. He pulled back with a staid looking 'History Champ' in one hand and a black one with red letters reading 'Princess of Evil' in the other.

Jones took the first from him with a grin. "I'm guessing _that_ one's Susan's mug," she commented, looking at the one left in his hand.

"It could be mine," Nathan replied with a straight face. "You never know."

She laughed, and he held his poker expression for a moment longer, then smirked and set it down. "But it's not. My princess days are well behind me now."

"And I_ so_ wanted to see you in a tiara, riding a unicorn," Jones mock-sighed. "Spoil my dreams, why don't you?"

He gave a snort and carefully opened the tea packets, dropping the bags into each cup. "So."

"So," Jones echoed, nervously running fingers through her hair. "You were, um, right about Noodle Doodle."

"You'll come to learn that I'm generally right about a lot of stuff," Nathan informed her with a hint of smugness. "Let Noodle Doodle be the start. What did you think?"

"Well, if I was eight years old, it would have been wonderful," Jones admitted with a giggle. "But there was ONE thing about the night that was pretty incredible."

"Mmm. What was that?" Nathan muttered, not daring to look at her. He busied himself with pouring the water into the cups. Part of him didn't want to hear the answer, but another part reasoned that if it was what he feared it was, better to hear it now.

"The accordion," Jones chirped, oblivious to his inner conflict. "My grandfather used to play one, and I'm guessing that Lady of Spain is the default tune because—"

At that moment, thunder rumbled out, making the air shake. Both of them looked up warily.

"That was . . . close," Jones whispered. There was something in her voice that made him look at her a little more carefully. Nathan handed her one of the mugs, knowing it would warm her hands to hold it.

"It will pass," he murmured quietly. "The National Weather Service says we're supposed to have sunshine by tomorrow afternoon."

"Yeah—" She didn't sound convinced, and Nathan managed a smile.

"Hey, I'm the princess of evil; you can take my word on this, okay?"

_That_ made her smile more easily, and Nathan drew a breath, blowing across his cup.

"I'm not scared of thunder," Jones told him. "I'm not. It's just atmospheric discharge created by a buildup of static and humidity."

Nathan rested a hip against the counter and gave an encouraging nod. "If you're bucking for an A in earth science, you're doing good."

She shot him a sharp look. "Don't get condescending, okay? I'm not a little kid, Nathan."

He didn't say anything, and Jones finally sighed. "Sorry. I used to get that a lot, back at my old job. I didn't take it well then, and I still don't now. Just a reflex."

"It's okay." Nathan gave a deprecating moue. "Sometimes I need reminding to tone it down. Usually Susan does a good job at it."

"I . . . should get going," Jones murmured, looking out the window uneasily. "It's . . . almost . . . dark."

"No, stay," Nathan blurted, setting his mug down. "Please! You want Italian, I can whip up a pretty good pasta, and I'm pretty sure I've got stuff to put on it. It will give me a good excuse not to scarf a few bags of chips and call it dinner."

"You wouldn't!" She blurted, and at that moment, the power went out.

For a split second both of them froze, and then Jones launched herself into his arms, her cup dropping to the floor with a clatter. Nathan rocked back under the force of her impact, arms wrapping around her slight frame, alarmed at this unexpected reaction. He felt how rock-tense her muscles were when Jones buried her face against his shoulder.

Something was seriously wrong, he realized in shock.

"Shit!" came her muffled curse. "Ohshitshitshitshit—!"

"Whoah, it's okay, it's okay!" Nathan tried to reassure her, not sure what had her so wound up. Her grip wasn't loosening, but oddly he didn't mind. Carefully Nathan kept murmuring soothing words while awkwardly, gently stroking her back. He knew better than to rush; the woman in his arms was terrified, but Nathan knew she'd tell him what was wrong.

Eventually.

The thunder rumbled again, softer and further away.

Nathan kept holding her.

Gradually, Jones began muttering 'I'msorry, I'msorry' in place of 'shitshitshit' and Nathan felt it was time to speak up.

"It's o-kay. I'm right here, you're going to be fine," he replied as calmly as he could. Calm was getting difficult with the warm press of woman in his arms, and his libido began to take serious notice. "Whatever it is, I'm here."

"Light," Jones murmured, her voice wavering. "Flashlight? Matches? I have a flashlight in my purse but it's over there . . ."

Nathan thought hard. The big Maglite was in the hall closet on the shelf, which was clearly going to be too far for the two of them to shuffle over together. Kitchen . . . there was a candle in a jar somewhere near the toaster, one of Susan's contributions to the décor, and he was sure the barbeque lighter was in the second cutlery drawer.

"Just a minute, can you, um, turn with me?" he managed, and lightly twisted. Right hand reached candle and pried off the glass top while left hand pulled out the drawer behind Jones and fished around. With a little more shifting, Nathan managed to get the candle lit, and immediately the kitchen was filled with gold light and the scent of green apples.

Shuddering, Jones drew in a breath and began to relax, pulling away slightly and blinking. Nathan saw how wet her cheeks were, and felt the dampness on his shoulder.

Seriously wrong.

"Okay, feeling better?" Nathan asked soothingly. Jones was forcing herself to relax and he watched as she took several slow, deep breaths.

"Better," she agreed in a meek voice.

Nathan reached up a hand and cupped the side of her neck. Her pulse was still fast was under his fingers. "You're scared of *some*thing, honey, and if it's not thunder, then what?"

"N-nyctophobia."

"Night?" he questioned gently, brows drawing together.

"Dark, okay? I . . . I don't like the dark," Jones muttered, face twisting in a defiant expression of embarrassed anger. "It's a legitimate phobia, and lots of people have it, and I've had therapy, but wintertime isn't easy for me, and when the news said that there might be power outages I was hurrying to get home so you wouldn't . . . wouldn't . . ."

". . . Find out," Nathan finished for her quietly. "Shit."

"Yeah," Jones mumbled, chuckling without humor. She dropped her forehead against his shoulder. "Pretty funny, huh? Grown woman who can't even handle a power outage without going crazy. Stupid, I know. "

"Stupid would be if you got stranded out on the road," Nathan chided. "Stuck somewhere without help. _Smart _is stopping in at a friend's house, which you did, and using the buddy system. You remember that, right? Teaming up with someone so you don't get into trouble?"

"I'm letting you get away with the condescension because you feel so nice," Jones warned him, "and you're being incredibly decent about this. I'm embarrassed as hell, you know."

"Pffft. We all have phobias," Nathan assured her, tightening his arms around her slightly.

"Yeah? So what makes _you_ turn into a gibbering idiot who needs medication, Gardner?" came the bleak question. "What throws a normal, sweet, kind man like _you _into panic attacks?"

"Okay, you have me there," Nathan murmured gently, "but therapy and meds . . . I _have _been there. Still take a nice low-dose anti-depressant right now, in fact, so I repeat, you're not alone. I did NOT mean to make light of this, Jonesy, really."

She said nothing for a while, just resting against him, and Nathan felt her relax a few degrees at a time, grateful that the candle was relatively bright. Gradually she raised her head again, and her crooked smile, trusting and woebegone hit Nathan hard in a very tender place. "You really are . . . a terrific man."

"Nah . . . I'm just honest," he admitted.

"And don't call me 'Jonesy,'" Jones added, cocking an eyebrow.

"Okay," Nathan agreed. "What _should_ I call you?"

"You can call me . . ." she hesitated, "Justinia."

Nathan blinked, and with a long-suffering sigh, Jones went on, her tone making it clear this was a well-rehearsed explanation. "Justinia is a genus of skipper butterflies that my grandfather was really fond of, and because my mother wanted to make him happy she named me that. I've been told it could have been worse, but I'm not always convinced. I _hate _the nicknames 'Tina' and 'Tinia' so I go by my last name."

"I can see why," Nathan agreed. "Although Justinia isn't _too _bad. Makes your claim of being 'Just Jones' legitimate."

"My way of thumbing my nose at the world," she agreed, loosening her grip on him. Nathan didn't like that, and opted to keep _his_ grip firm.

"Lemme think—I've got some old citronella candles in the garage, and I think there are a few itty bitty birthday candles in one of the drawers here, and ohhhhhhh yes, a niiiiiiice biiiiiiiiig Duraflame log out in the fireplace. Which one sounds best to you?"

Jones snorted once again, and let herself hug him tightly once more.


	5. Chapter 5

The log put out enough light to make the room comfortable, and Jones felt much better. Nathan left her near the bright flames and made dinner, talking to her from across the rooms as he did so. She wanted to go join him, but he insisted she stay near the fire, and Jones didn't have quite the courage to argue with him about it.

She felt an unexpected coziness in her stomach; one that came not just from anticipating dinner, but also from the comfort of Nathan's easy acceptance. Jones knew she'd been trying hard to deal with the damned phobia, and yes, most of the time it wasn't too bad. Doctor Rohm had helped her, and they'd worked on desensitization, but it had been slow going, and with the move, she hadn't had a chance to get back to regular sessions just yet.

Still, Nathan knew and wasn't looking at her with pity, or that uncomfortable annoyed feeling that Nick used to give her when she got . . . panicky.

Pushing aside thoughts of her ex, she slipped off her shoes and stretched her sock-covered feet towards the golden flames, blissfully enjoying the warmth.

"You want wine with this?' Nathan called from the kitchen.

"No, that's okay."

"Good. I don't have any anyway," came his confession. "Although if you want a beer, or something stronger---"

"I'm fine," Jones assured him. "Water's good for me, but if you want something, go ahead."

More clattering from the kitchen, and Nathan appeared, carrying a steaming pot that he set on the coffee table in front of the sofa. There was something utterly endearing about a man using potholders, Jones decided. It made Nathan look domestic, and cute, especially combined with the glasses.

"Basil pesto. It's hot," he added, plumes rising up fragrantly from the noodles as he handed her a deep plate. "Here—"

Jones didn't realize she was so hungry; she scooped a plateful and stirred it a little. Nathan disappeared back into the kitchen, bringing with him parmesan, two water glasses and a handful of napkins. Jones helped him set everything on the coffee table and watched him serve himself a plateful. "You cook."

"Out of necessity and boredom," Nathan countered. "Italian is easy, especially when the topping is store-bought."

Jones didn't answer; her mouth was full.

They ate, and she realized how good it actually was. Nathan had added pine nuts and olives; garnishes that betrayed an actual talent for cooking despite his claims to the contrary. By the time she managed to get through her plate, Jones was feeling comfortably full and a little sleepy.

Nathan gave a sigh and set his plate down. "I better leave some for the kid; she gets cranky if there aren't any leftovers for her."

"Speaking of Susan--"

"Friend's house for the night," Nathan told her, his voice a little strained. "Her way of getting out of the laundry tomorrow."

"Oh." Jones replied, and the warmth in her stomach cranked another notch. So here she was, sitting on a sofa with a talented, compassionate, handsome _single_ man--

Suddenly the fire seemed not so much cheerful as . . .

Romantic.

The memory of their moment in the stockroom flashed through her, and Jones squirmed ever so slightly.

"It's okay," Nathan mumbled, staring into the fire. "She's entitled to time on her own. By next year . . ."

Jones blinked, and inwardly she laughed, realizing how utterly different their trains of thought had been. Leaning forward, she lightly rubbed his forearm. "She's a great kid."

His smile was sweet and spontaneous. "She _is _isn't she?"

They talked. The evening turned into night, and outside the rattle of sleet kept sending gusts down into the fireplace, but Jones only noticed it once in a while. Nathan got her to talk about Langley, and even Nick a bit. On turn, she heard about his upbringing, and some hilarious stories about his college days, but when it came to his marriage, Nathan was brusque, only mentioning his ex briefly, and crediting Susan with her mother's coloring and height.

Jones sensed more under the surface, but now wasn't the time to probe, so she changed the subject. "I'm going to have to get going."

"Yeah, it's late," Nathan agreed. "Let me go clear off the bed in the guest room and find you some towels."

She blinked, taken aback by his easy tone, and he went on softly. "It's _dark_ outside, and still crappy weather—there's no way I'm letting you go out in that, especially now to an empty house in a blackout. Not only would it be risky, it would be stupid."

"Nathan, I've imposed enough as it is," Jones protested lightly. "You've been great, but the last thing you need is an overnight head case."

That made him snort, and he rubbed his chin as he rolled his eyes towards the ceiling. "First of all, I'm not exactly the poster boy for mental health myself, okay? And secondly, it's not an imposition—the guest room's got its own attached bathroom, even. You can curl up with as many candles as you like and get some sleep while I do the dishes and see if I can make my way through the rest of this damn biography."

Jones hesitated; she hadn't been looking especially forward to taking on the darkness again, and Nathan's offer was very tempting, especially after such a comforting evening. That hesitation seemed to settle it for Nathan. He rose up and stretched a little, then motioned with his head. "This way—"

She got to her feet and scooped up her shoes, following behind Nathan as he led the way to the stairs, carrying the apple candle in his hands. The light made the shadows dance a little as he moved.

"Suze's room is here, just off the landing, annnnd, guest room is here," he muttered, pushing the door open. "Let me just move these--"

Nathan pulled an armful of magazines and books off the bed and dropped them into a laundry basket. "Sheets are clean, and most of the things in the dresser would probably fit you—Suzy's old stuff."

"Thanks," Jones murmured, feeling shy and nervous. It had nothing to do with the phobia though, and a lot to do with Nathan's presence.

He motioned with one hand towards an adjoining door. "Bathroom's in there, and I'm pretty sure there's at _least_ one more candle in it."

"Good," Jones murmured, as much for something to say. She repeated it. "Good."

"Yeah," Nathan nodded. He slowly stepped to the door. "Okay then, if you're good, I'll just . . . get going."

A thought struck Jones and she shifted closer to him, taking the candle. "Where's _your_ room?"

"Downstairs," Nathan replied, his expression ever so slightly amused. "I'm your first line of defense against burglars."

"Oh," Jones replied, feeling both slightly disappointed and relieved. It was odd to be this nervous around Nathan, and she knew he was feeling it too; he had trouble standing still, and fidgeted a bit. She reached out and laid a hand on his chest. "Thanks . . ." she let herself drift closer and brought her face up to his.

This was dangerous territory, but oh so familiar and sweet, too. His big dark eyes locked with hers, and Jones felt that lovely attraction flare up between them once more. " . . . for every . . . ."

" . . . thing," he finished for her in a husky whisper, and his mouth barely brushed hers. They stood there, breathing each others breath, eyes closed, for a long, lovely moment.

Then Jones pulled back and broke the spell. "'Night, Nathan."

He wandered out of the room, mumbling, "'Night," to the closing door.

*** *** ***

Nathan had trouble falling asleep, and it had nothing to do with the storm or the power outage. Most of his trouble centered on the swirling thoughts in his head all shouting at him for attention. The foremost, was simple and delighted: _You have a woman sleeping over!_

A second one tempered that: _But not exactly WITH you, idiot_.

A third one interrupted with, _Hel-lo, we have NEEDS here. Any chance of getting some tonight?_

"Shut up," he mumbled at all of them, fighting a smirk as he did so. "She's a _guest _for Christ's sake, and jumping her is out of the question."

_So why are you thinking about licking her toes, Mr. Gardner?_ came the internal taunt.

Nathan sighed. "Because they're cute. At least, I'm betting they're cute. The rest of her is: ergo her toes will be too."

_Unh huh, yeah, and sooooo would her little—_

He clamped down on _that_ thought and pulled his pillow over his head, feeling himself blush. This was ridiculous. He was well past the age of blushing, let alone contemplating toe-licking. Nathan chuffed into the foam rubber and tried to think of other things.

_Not hardly. Almost a second kiss there, pal. This is a mutual thing going on here._

"There's no proof of that," he muttered aloud, into the pillow. "It was . . . gratitude."

_More than that and you know it. Just admit you're scared._

"I'm not." Nathan couldn't believe he was saying it aloud.

_You are too._

"Bullshit."

_Yeah, whatever. Let's get back to the toes and all the other good bits that are currently one story up over your head, all warm and cozy. You'd start by peeling off her socks . . ._

Nathan rolled over and forced the fantasy out of his head, turning his mind to the fundamental theme of the Jefferson book and bored himself to sleep.

He awoke with a start, aware that although it wasn't raining anymore, the power was still out. A peek at the bedside clock, frozen at 6:12 PM confirmed that, and it was only as he tossed back the covers that the rushing awareness that JONESISHERE hit him.

With increasing speed Nathan hurried into the master bathroom and took care of his bladder, his hands and his teeth in that order, then grabbed his bathrobe, pulling it around his tee-shirt and sweats impatiently. A part of him hoped that Jones wouldn't sneak off without at least thanking him, but another more panicky part worried that she might have done just that and even if she'd left a note, it would be impersonal and that would hurt like hell.

As he cocked an ear, he realized someone was moving around, and that sent a happy pang through him. Nathan ran a hand over his hair, hoping it didn't look too damn goofy as stepped into the kitchen.

He stared, drinking it in. The word of the day was no longer 'gratitude' no, now it was 'domestic.'

Domestic, with a lot of 'seductive' thrown in.

Jones turned, looking embarrassed to be caught in his old zip up hoodie and what looked like a pair of Suze's denim shorts. The shorts part meant a hell of a lot of pale leg was showing, along with yessss, bare feet.

"Cheerios or eggs?"

For a moment Nathan had no clue what she was talking about. Too much of his attention was on the holy hell hotness of the figure standing at the counter. Jones looked sleepy and sweet; like a woman on vacation.

"You don't have to cook Cheerios for me," Nathan muttered, then flushed when the stupidity of what he'd said dawned on him. Jones laughed softly.

"I won't," she promised. "And I won't stay long, seriously. Just wanted to get some coffee started before I got out of your hair."

"Coffee is a good start," he agreed. "So what do _you _want for breakfast? Did you sleep okay?" Nathan asked with a hint of anxiousness.

She nodded, looking sheepish. "Great, but I used up the whole candle. I'll replace it, I promise."

"Not a problem," he waved it away, moving over to pull a mug off out of one of the cupboards. "Is the coffee ready?"

"Almost," Jones replied. "And I fed your cat."

Nathan winced. "We . . . don't have a cat. That is,_ I_ don't have a cat. Suze, however, has this irritating relationship with a mooching stray who hangs around the back door. Let me guess—he gave you the 'let me in, I'm starving' routine."

Jones looked guilty. "He was out in the sleet, Nathan, and totally miserable! And . . ." she softened a little, "I noticed the dish of pasta you left for him was empty."

Nathan looked away and cleared his throat. "I repeat: he's not my cat."

Jones nodded solemnly, playing along.

It didn't take long to make breakfast since they both opted for scrambled eggs. For once the toaster was cooperative, and Nathan was grateful he'd already shopped for groceries. Jones took charge of the coffee while he worked on the eggs.

"Sugar?" she asked.

"Yes darling?" Nathan quipped back, adding, "Two spoonfuls, but no cream, thanks."

Jones gave a chuckle and moved to the window, looking out at the cold gleam over the landscape. "Ugh. A good day to catch up on reading."

"I'll have to, if the power doesn't come back soon," Nathan nodded. "The stove's gas, but the washer and dryer are electric. What about yours?"

"All electric out at my place," Jones replied, setting the table. "Although the water heater runs on a gas connection."

They ate, and chatted. Nathan was privately pleased to watch Jones eat all of the serving he'd given her. The sense of domestic coziness returned, making him content. After she'd refilled the coffee and sat down again, he was halfway through a sip when Nathan felt her toes playfully brush against his under the table.

Carefully he swallowed and murmured around the lip of the cup. "You are playing with fire there, woman. Be warned."

"Fire, huh?" Jones looked away, smirking.

"Raging," Nathan confirmed. "Footsie is a personal weakness of mine."

"I'll make a note of that," she promised, stroking his bare ankle with the side of her foot. "Good to know for our next staff meeting."

"I'm not sure I can really consider that a _threat,"_ Nathan mused in his deadpan way. "More of a promise I'll have to hold you to."

"You do that," she twinkled back, reaching for more jam.

Then it was time to go, and Nathan walked her to her car, glad that there was no wind, but chilled just the same. Ice was everywhere, covering each tree branch and blade of grass. He knew he looked stupid in his garden boots and ratty bathrobe, but he wasn't about to let her leave without saying goodbye.

Jones tossed the bag of still slightly damp clothes into the passenger seat and turned, looking up at Nathan, the puff of her breath visible in the chill. "So . . . Thank you so much for everything, Nathan," she murmured. "The dinner and the . . . comforting. I'm incredibly grateful for everything."

He gave a shrug. "You make it sound like it was difficult and it wasn't."

"Not everyone would be so . . . understanding," Jones reminded him, and Nathan was fascinated to note she was drifting closer now, bright-eyed.

He knew it was going to be now . . .

Jones kissed him, moving deliberately, and the first warm touch of her lips made him groan as the world lost focus everywhere but right in front of him. He slid his arms around her, needing to feel the solidity of her body against him as he lightly tipped his face and kissed her harder.

And it was good. God, it was mind meltingly good to feel her mouth open under his, to taste this woman. The feel of her kissing him _back_ all breathless and hungry, the squeeze or her arms around his waist was pushing Nathan into sensory overload.

Never mind that the two of them were standing in the driveway and freezing; no the sweet rush of this glorious moment was everything. Her little squeaky sighs urged him on, and Nathan stroked her tongue with his, luxuriating on the glory of kissing. So long, it had been so very long since he'd kissed anyone this way, and when Jones gasped for breath Nathan was tempted to laugh.

The look in her eyes though; that hot blue spark of wary eagerness made him tighten his arms around her and kiss Jones again, glad to feel her as thrilled by it as he was. Slower this time, but just as tender, and Nathan was the one having trouble breathing now because stopping was just not an option. At least, not until Jones giggled against his mouth, pulling back. "Your phone is ringing!"

"Let it," Nathan growled, nuzzling her mouth and contemplating an ass grab. It was still early yet, but his hormones were shouting at him.

"It might," Jones puffed, licking the corner of his mouth, "be important."

Nathan swooped in for another deep, delicious kiss and then yanked the phone from his bathrobe pocket and snapped it open. "Yeah?"

Susan's voice sounded slightly amplified. "Can you unlock the back door? Ellen's taking me to the mall and I need to change and get my wallet."

"Shit." Nathan blinked, looking towards the house.

"What?" Susan asked, and Jones muffled a giggle. She slithered free of Nathan's embrace and motioned back to the house as she climbed into her car.

"Nothing. I'll . . . be right there," Nathan assured his daughter in a strained voice, then bent down to kiss Jones once more. He covered the speaker of the phone and muttered. "Not done here—!"

"I know," Jones nodded. "Tuesday. I'll see you then. Thanks, bye!"

She started the car as Nathan reluctantly backed up and turned to the house, pulling his robe more tightly around himself and striving for some semblance of innocence.

He made his way to the sliding door at the back and unlocked it. Susan stared at him for a moment as she dropped her sleeping bag behind the sofa. "Were you outside?"

"Checking to see if anyone on the street has power," Nathan lied. "Does Ellen?"

"Nope. We had to heat the pizza on her dad's Coleman stove, and told a bunch of dorky ghost stories," Susan snorted. "Then Madison wanted advice about whether it's kinky if a guy wants to wear your bra."

Nathan's eyebrows went up, and Susan laughed.

"What was the consensus?" he asked after a moment.

Susan paused at the foot of the stairs, looking over her shoulder and grinning. "That it's only kinky if it fits better on him."

"Good answer," Nathan responded automatically, and went to clear the dishes in the kitchen before Susan noticed them.

She came back down, looking thoughtful, and Nathan felt the hairs on the back of his neck go up. Suzie-Q was sharp, too much so for a kid her age sometimes. He waved the spatula at her. "Got time for breakfast?"

"Sorry, we're stopping at Cinnabon at the mall," she replied with a grin. "Dad, did you sleep in the guest room last night?"

"No," Nathan answered honestly. "Although I may have left the candle up there while I was rummaging for another flashlight."

That wasn't a lie, technically. He very well_ might _have left the candle.

Susan said nothing, moving to hug him and heading to the front door. Nathan stood there watching her head out to the curb, and it dawned on him that the big dry patch in the driveway stood out against the ice all around it.

Nathan hoped against hope that Suze wouldn't notice; he wasn't ready yet to talk about anything.


	6. Chapter 6

Jones made her way through the halls of the administration building, trying to keep calm, and wishing she'd had more coffee before attempting this. It felt uncomfortable on a lot of levels, from the skirt and pantyhose all the way to the damned visitor's badge on her collar.

Stifling. Jones tried to keep her mind on staying professional, on slipping back into the role of good little government employee for the day, but it chafed more than ever, and she realized how much she enjoyed her freedom out at Western Summit.

Room 219 loomed ahead, and Jones pushed her way through the double doors into the Personnel office, looking around. No clerks rushed to her aid at the front counter, so Jones waited for someone to notice her.

She thought about Nathan, and the memory of his mouth on hers made Jones want to squirm, even now. She'd relived those kisses nearly every hour since they'd happened, and the jolt of pleasure still hit her just as strongly each time; a hot pang of desire flaring down her belly.

Chemistry, Jones admitted to herself. Clear, unmistakable, male-to-female attraction that hit at the cellular level. Something she must have sensed from the first moment she'd seen Nathan Gardner.

Something she'd never experienced before, and it scared the daylights out of her.

"May I help you?" a motherly looking clerk asked, breaking into her reverie. Jones set aside thoughts of Nathan and cleared her throat.

"Yes, I'm trying to find out why my employment paperwork is still being held up?" Jones rattled off her social security number and name, then followed the clerk to a cubicle down a hallway. The tiny square held two uncomfortable chairs barely separated by an empty desk.

"Wait here, I'll see what's going on," the clerk assured Jones, and left her.

Time passed. Jones tried to occupy herself with lesson plans and shopping lists, but her thoughts kept circling back to Nathan. He'd been so . . .

A jumble of descriptions rose to fill that sentence. Tender. Hungry. Passionate. Delicious. Sexy.

God, _definitely_ sexy, Jones sighed. His button down wardrobe and 'I know what's best for you' reading glasses belied a man with insanely good kissing talent; a talent she wanted to experience again, that was for certain.

"Ms Jones?" a voice interrupted her thoughts, and she flinched guiltily as the clerk returned, looking slightly harassed. "I'm sorry, but you're to go up to 533 and speak to a Mr. Lankandros."

Jones shut her eyes for a moment, and then rose to her feet, feeling the sharp sting of irritation well up in her. "Thank you."

The clerk shrugged. "Out of my hands. Do you know the way?"

"Yes," Jones admitted, and made her way back out to the lobby, and the bank of elevators there, trying to hold back her rising annoyance. She waited for an empty car and stepped in, punching the button with more force than was necessary, then took a deep breath.

She'd known this was coming; inevitable, really, given the circumstances. He hadn't taken the break-up well, and although Jones had tried to be gentle, Nick Lankandros wasn't the sort to let go easily, if at all. The man was used to getting what he wanted, and keeping what he'd acquired; useful for the CIA, but not so much for relationships.

Jones stepped out and reluctantly made her way to 533, opening the door and nodding to the receptionist there. Mrs. Carlyle gave her a wry smile. "Miss Jones."

"Mrs. Carlyle. Is he in?"

"He's on the phone," the receptionist replied. "Should be done in a few minutes. How_ are_ you dear?"

"I'm fine," Jones lied sweetly through her teeth. She settled down in one of the chairs in the tidy reception area and tried to ignore the seething in her stomach.

On the phone was probably a lie, Jones knew. More than likely, Nick lounging in his office, playing with his GS to kill time and build her irritation. It was just the sort of thing he'd do, and knowing it didn't make it any easier to deal with. Jones forced herself to be patient, and think of other things.

Something _did_ occur to her, and she pulled out her PDA, smiling to herself. With a few quick texts and her credit card number, the order was placed, and she barely looked up when Mrs. Carlyle coughed for her attention.

"You can go in now, Miss Jones."

"Thank you, Mrs. Carlyle." Jones put away her PDA, picked up her purse and carefully stepped into Nick's office.

And there he was, carefully posed behind his desk: Nick Lankandros—blonde blue-eyed poster boy for the CIA.

He rose from his seat and came over to her, hands outstretched. Jones steeled herself for his hug, which was lingered a little too long for her comfort. "Justy! How are you?"

She cut to the chase. "Why are you holding up my paperwork, Nick? I'm getting flack from the personnel office at the school district."

"These things take time; you know that. Background checks, especially around here are always slow. You look good."

"Thanks. I need my paperwork to keep getting a paycheck, Nick. I was hired on the provision that my files would be delivered within a week. What's going on?"

"Nothing serious, I'm sure," Nick told her smoothly. "Tell you what—let's have lunch, and then we can mosey on back to 219 and see what we find out, hmmm?"

Jones gritted her teeth; to aggravate Nick now would guarantee further delay, but to agree would be an extended afternoon of fending him off. It was a lose/lose situation, and she racked her brain for some third, better option.

"I can't do lunch, Nick; I'm seeing Phil in an hour, and doing some shopping after that. I just need to know you're going to take this seriously."

"I always take you seriously," he practically purred back at her. "You know that."

Jones managed a frosty smile. "Nick, you know if I mention this to Phil, he's going to make suggestions."

He would, too—her father might be retired, but his legal expertise was still sharp, and his influence far-reaching.

Nick gave a little sigh. "I'm sure your verifications will be out by this week, No need to get pushy, Justy. At least, not _here."_ He said this last with a smarmy smile, and Jones pretended not to pick up on the insinuations in it. Nick's mind was never too far out of the bedroom, and while that had been fun in the early months, it was pretty much the only direction he liked to go with her.

She moved over to his desk and picked up the phone, handing him the receiver. "Fine. How about _you_ get a little pushy then?"

He slowly moved to take it from her, leaning close as he flashed her a confident smile. "I love it when you're angry."

"You won't love it when I'm litigious, Nick. There's no reason for the delay."

He put the receiver up to his ear reluctantly and spoke in a polished voice. "Mrs. Carlyle, have the Jones files verified and put into the mail this afternoon please."

Nick hung up and shot Jones a smug little smile. "Good enough?"

"It's a start." She added, "Thank you."

"Oh you can thank me better than _that_, Justy," Nick murmured, and bent towards her. Jones quickly turned her face, letting his lips land on her cheek.

He let his kiss linger, and Jones pulled back as swiftly as she could, managing a cool smile. "Same old Nick."

"Yeah," he agreed easily. "So. Not bored yet with upstate New York and teenagers yet? You know you can have your old job back anytime, along with all the benefits."

"Generous," Jones murmured, and fished in her purse. "But I'm okay with the kids and the job. It's relaxing."

"You'll get tired of it in a year," Nick predicted. "So when's the housewarming? I'll bring you a nice big lamp."

Hiding her wince, Jones pretended to smile. "I'll let you know when I can celebrate my paperwork getting into town. Have to run, Nick, I'll see you later."

He nodded, smiling back, looking hungry. "Yes, I'd love to see what's so wonderful about this job of yours. I'll let you go; I know you'll want to get on the road before sunset."

Jones managed to walk serenely all the way to the elevator and hold her rage long enough for the doors to close; once they did, she pounded her fist _hard_ on the lobby button and contemplated petty revenge. She wanted to key his car, or flatten his tires, but the security cameras would catch her, and in any case, Nick would probably love the proof that he'd gotten to her.

She pulled off her visitor's badge and tossed it in the bin, then strode out of the lobby, grateful that each step was taking her away from her old life.

*** *** ***

The door was ajar.

Nathan steeled himself and then slipped into the room across the hall, clearing his throat as he did so. "About yesterday . . . we need to talk."

"We do?" The pudgy man with horn rim glasses looked up, startled.

Nathan blinked, staring back. "Who are you?"

"Alvin Bischoff. Who are _you_ and what happened yesterday?" he replied in a slightly squeaky voice.

"You're . . . a sub," Nathan realized quickly, noting the man's clip-on name badge and slight air of desperation. Subbing at the high school level was a make or break job, and not everyone lasted in it. Bischoff looked as if he might be on the verge of joining the Foreign Legion very soon.

"Yeah. What happened yesterday? Is it something I need to know? Another riot? I _heard_ about what happened last year. It was on the news. I have pepper spray, you know. That doesn't require registration!" he spluttered, pushing up his glasses nervously.

"Nothing happened!" Nathan tried to reassure him. "Where's Miss Jones?"

"Hey wait—you're Gardner, right?"

"Yes," Nathan looked suspicious.

Bischoff gave a sigh and deflated a bit, like a balloon with half the air let out. "There was a note in the lesson plan—hang on."

Skittering to the desk, Bischoff pulled up a page and read it aloud. "If Mr. Gardner stops by, please remind him I'm expediting my paperwork and that I'll see him on Tuesday at the staff meeting, and she's drawn a smiley face after that." He held the paper up for Nathan.

"Art teachers; they like to draw," Nathan murmured, feeling his stomach do happy flip-flops.

Bischoff shrugged. "Most of them are a little dipsy-doodle, yeah. So, no riot?"

"No, not unless the cafeteria runs out of corn dogs," Nathan confided, moving for the door.

By third period, he was halfway through a review of the Monroe Doctrine when the flowers arrived. Nathan looked at the office messenger standing at the door with a vase in her hands. "Yes?"

"These came for you, Mr. Gardner," the girl chirped, holding out the red and yellow roses. The class watched, and a few low 'oooohhhhs' came from the back.

Nathan took the vase uncertainly. "Are you . . . sure?"

"Yes sir," the girl nodded, and bounced out the door again. Nathan set the vase down and fumbled for his glasses as he picked up the little card. He managed to pull it out and scan the unfamiliar handwriting.

_I bet everyone's staring at you now, huh?_ It said, and after that, a smiley face.

Nathan blinked, feeling his cheeks flush.

Jenna Gonzalez spoke up. "Who's it from, Mr. Gardner?"

"Angelina Jolie," he muttered. "Okay people, the salient points of the doctrine established _what_ in regard to American foreign policy?"

"Angelina Jolie sent you flowers? Damn!" Joel Higgins sighed from the second row. "Does Brad Pitt know?"

"Brad never sends_ her_ flowers," another voice broke in. "He just adopts another kid for her."

Snickers erupted throughout the class and Nathan regretted his glibness. "People, can we get back to Monroe, please?"

"Guys don't _get_ flowers," Jenna persisted. "That's gay."

"Mr. Gardner's not gay," Joel argued. "You know he's not."

"Thank you, but I'm right _here_ and I can vouch for myself, Joel," Nathan growled. "And I don't see why a man can't get flowers. Granted they're not practical--the way a nice basket of say, smoked ham and crackers would be--but that's not the point. It's the thought."

"Hammmm," someone murmured in a Homer Simpson voice, making the class laugh again.

"Or like, one of those sausage and cheese packs. I dig me some of that smoked cheddar!" another student added.

"Dude, you smoke _every_thing, Zane," came the accusation, and Nathan sighed, resigning himself to giving up on the Monroe Doctrine.

Fortunately the bell rang at that moment and most of the class filed out quickly, with one or two of the girls lingering to sniff the roses.

"They're pretty," one told him shyly, and Nathan smiled at her. When the last student had filed out, he reached over and touched one of the velvety red buds.

"You are SO dead, Jones," he muttered through a grin.

*** *** ***

The staff meetings usually took place in the library, and Sedgwick droned at the podium in front. Generally most people managed to put on their best poker faces during them; while Sedgwick was not an inspiring leader, he did occasionally spring a surprise, and nobody wanted to be caught napping, literally or figuratively.

People clumped together in cliques, usually drawn by departments or friendships, and Nathan found himself by Newt and Gwen at one of the round tables near the door. The two of them were pretending they were ignoring each other, and Nathan tried hard to ignore both of them. He'd put the flowers in the back of his car and kept the note, which was tucked in the pocket of his slacks.

Somehow the Angelina Jolie story had spread, and Nathan had been the recipient of not a few assessing looks and thumbs-up from the male half of the school. Some of the females had done some staring too, but he worked hard at getting on with the rest of his day, not bothering to look at the bouquet on his desk for the most part.

One or two of the staff asked about it; Nathan admitted honestly that the card hadn't been signed. Newt gave him a knowing look, but Nathan deflected any further questions by asking about the football tryouts.

"Made linebacker," Newt muttered with satisfaction. "Means I can up my caloric intake."

"Glad to hear you have priorities."

"That's the one I'm permitted to talk about in public," came the retort, and then the staff meeting had started. Now Sedgwick was talking about some damned community project, and Nathan was doodling on his notepad, working on a pretty good sketch of a hangman's noose.

The door opened, and everyone glanced over as Jones slunk in, smiling a quick apology. She dropped into the seat next to Nathan and scooted in, nodding at Sedgwick to continue. He did, picking up the thread of his comments as Nathan shifted to make room for Jones.

He scribbled a note on his pad and passed it in front of her: _You are in trouble. See artwork-__à_

Jones fought a smirk and took his pen, scribbling her own note on the pad. _Me? What about you? From what I hear, Brad Pitt's gunning for you._

Nathan nabbed the pen again. _I could take him. I reiterate: You. Big Trouble._

_For what?_ Jones wrote back, sketching a quick face whistling with eyes averted.

_For impeding my review of the Monroe Doctrine, among other things. How was DC?_

Jones drew a scowling face on the pad, adding devil horns on it. Nathan shot her an inquiring look, but at that moment, Sedgwick called her name and they both looked up guiltily.

"Miss Jones, I'm putting you in charge of the new mural of course. Something appropriate and patriotic, design to be approved by the district and the site committee."

"Oh, of course," she agreed sweetly. "Something . . . historical?"

"Good idea. Gardner, you supervise the project since history's your department. I want something tasteful and non-controversial, got it?"

"That means no naked Betsy Ross," Newt muttered to Nathan. "Or Jefferson rolling a blunt on his desk in Monticello."

Jones smothered a giggle, and Sedgwick looked over at them sternly. "Settle down, people. Now, about the new nutritional guidelines regarding the soda machines . . ."

When the meeting was finally over, Gwen sighed. "Okay, I'm not going to name names, but _some_one was playing footsie with me under the table."

Newt looked disgruntled. "Who?"

Nathan looked startled. "Not me."

They all looked at Jones, who gave them a quiet smirk.

"_She's _trouble," Newt assessed.

"Oh I don't know," Gwen murmured back. "I had fun. Come on, Newt, or we'll be late to class."

The coach rolled his eyes but willingly lumbered after Gwen out the door, disappearing into the hallway. Other people filed out in twos and threes as Nathan took his time picking up. Sedgwick came over, his expression slightly sour, as usual.

"I hope you've managed to straighten out your paperwork issues, Miss Jones," he began in a pedantic tone. "It's essential we have everything in order before the holidays so I'm not forced to re-interview for the position."

"Yes, I believe you'll be receiving the files within the next few days, Mr. Sedgwick," Jones told him smoothly. "Just a little mix-up with HR on their end."

"Good. In the meantime, you can start drawing up plans for the mural," he countered with slight irritation. "I'm going to re-iterate here that it must be appropriate, and by that I mean—"

"—Conservative," Nathan smoothly interjected. "Non-controversial and aesthetically acceptable to the neighborhood."

"Absolutely," Sedgwick grunted, not pleased to have his thunder stolen. "Gardner, you know what I mean, so make sure it happens."

With a final grunt at the pair of them, he headed out.

They were the only ones left in the library.

Jones rose, and Nathan did too, moving in and catching her gaze. "We need to talk."

"We need to eat," Jones told him. "I'm starving, and I never listen on an empty stomach. I'll order pizza and we can beat the delivery guy to my house."

"I . . . actually, that sounds like a damned good idea," Nathan muttered. "I could go for pizza."

"Antoine's," Jones sighed happily, fishing out her cell phone. "On speed dial. What do you want on it?"

"Everything." Nathan replied. "I'm good with everything."

"Really?"

"Yep," he nodded. "Anchovies, green peppers, red peppers, pineapple, olives, I like it all."

"Who would have guessed?" Jones smirked at him, "under that traditional suit beats the heart of a nonconformist?"

"That's me; teacher by day, radical pizza fan by night," Nathan agreed. "Your place?"

"My place."


	7. Chapter 7

They were there in fifteen minutes, Nathan pulling in behind her on the driveway and joining her along the sidewalk up to the house. He hadn't noticed much of it the previous time he'd been there, but when he stepped inside, Nathan noted the cool shades of green everywhere, and the thick pale carpeting. Looking down he saw Jones had abandoned her shoes next to the door, and he was tempted to do the same. Her voice floated to him from down the hallway.

"Leave your shoes by the door—the carpet's new and I'm trying to keep it clean, okay?"

That was good enough for him, and feeling slightly foolish, Nathan slipped off his loafers. He wandered down the hallway and into the living room, looking around curiously.

One side of the room held a brick fireplace, and on either side of it, sliding glass doors that showed a lovely gardenscape back yard. Along the two side walls hung art prints of every style and size, mixing and meshing in a bright and tasteful way. Nathan admired that all of them had white frames, giving a soothing appeal against the pale green paint.

The back wall was bare, but the overstuff sofa against it was done in green and white stripes, and the pillows piled on each end were in blues and tans, picking up on the colors in most of the art prints.

The coffee table was half of a barrel with a glass top; when Nathan looked into it, he saw sand, sea shells and a few dried starfish. He blinked at the whimsy of it all, and when he looked up, Jones was standing there, blushing slightly.

"I sort of went overboard decorating the place," she admitted. "I haven't lived in a full house in years, and well . . ."

"It's gorgeous," Nathan told her sincerely. "I love the view."

"Yeah," Jones nodded. "I concentrate on the garden, and not the cemetery behind it, although even that doesn't bother me. According to the Real Estate guy, that's what kept this place from being sold. Not everyone can deal with that particular view."

"I could see that," Nathan admitted. "Still—it's great."

"Better than my last view," Jones agreed. "So—I'll go change and you listen for the pizza, okay?"

*** *** ***

She was nervous; the pit of her stomach was bouncing like a trampoline under a happy two-year old, and Jones dug through her closet, looking for something that didn't send the wrong message.

Jeans. Jeans were good, she decided, along with a black thermal tee-shirt. She roughly ran a comb through her hair and made her way back downstairs, fighting for calmness, and under it all, chuckling at her own nervousness.

_I really *like* him_, she thought, and it was such an obvious truth that Jones nearly giggled out loud. She hadn't realized how much she'd looked forward to seeing Nathan at the staff meeting, and knowing he'd saved her a place delighted her.

She stepped into the living room and found him gone, but there were voices coming from the front door, and when Jones reached it, Nathan was holding a large box.

"Hot, hot, hot," he manfully growled, and added, "Kitchen?"

"That way--" Jones pointed, and followed after him as he quickly darted towards the open doorway. Nathan slid the pizza box onto the counter with a small flourish and blew on his palms while Jones fought a giggle and went to the cupboard for plates. "You're so brave."

"It's not on the order of say, killing a mastodon and dragging it home," Nathan demurred, but grinned anyway as he opened the lid. "Oh baby!"

His tone made her look over, piqued, but the sight of steam rising from the beautiful collage of a pizza quelled it, and Jones came to look over his shoulder. "Wow."

"Even with the appetite I have, I'm predicting you'll have leftovers through Friday, at least," Nathan nodded. "This is not a pizza, it's an edible manhole cover."

"You can take some to Susan," Jones assured him. "Does she like everything on it too?"

"No," Nathan sighed. "She'll pick about one half of the delights off. Speaking of which—" he pulled out a cell phone and hit a button. Jones busied herself with her plate, trying not to listen in.

"Hey Suzie-Q, I'm out to dinner with, um, someone from school, so I'll be in late. Call me if you need a ride home from work. Love you, and don't feed the cat."

Jones handed Nathan a plate as he pocketed his phone. "I've got wine, soda or water. Where does she work?"

"What are _you _having, and at that fancy sunglasses place in the mall."

"One glass of wine. Isn't it expensive?"

"Okay me too. And yeah, God knows how they stay in business selling four hundred dollar sunglasses. Suze says they do good with the skiers in the winter and vacationers in the summer, but I don't see how, myself," Nathan muttered. "My Ray-bans come from the drug store."

Jones giggled. "And here I had you pegged as a Foster Grant man. White okay?" She held up a bottle of Zinfandel.

"Yep."

They moved out to the living room and set the plates on the coffee table. Jones curled up cross-legged and scarfed her first slice of pizza, hungrier than she realized. Across from her, Nathan had loosened his tie and was taking huge bites himself, blissing out with each one.

"Good," he managed between mouthfuls. "Very good."

"I agree."

They ate, and Jones felt her stomach settle down, anchored by good pizza and calmed a bit by the wine. She finished her slice and thought about getting another, but with some sort of mind-reading skill, Nathan got up and brought two more pieces back, one for each of them.

"How did you know?" she murmured. "Thanks."

"You looked hungry," Nathan replied cheekily, "besides, I was going to get one for myself anyway."

"Your expediency astounds me," Jones smirked, and took a bite.

"Efficiency," he corrected. "I'm being efficient."

"Mmm," Jones replied, noting that Nathan was looking at her feet. She hadn't changed the color on the nails yet; that was for later tonight, but his glances amused her. "What?"

"What?"

"You've seen toe rings before, right?"

He was embarrassed now; Jones could see his blush. "A few times. You've got . . . pretty feet."

"Eh," she disagreed. "Long and narrow. And I need to redo the polish, but I'm out of Pink Passion."

"Pink Passion?" Nathan echoed faintly. Jones extended one foot towards him, and waggled her toes at him.

"The color, see?"

"Ah."

Jones hadn't expected him to reach down and take her foot in his hands, but she fought her little shiver. "I'm ticklish," came her warning.

"No tickling," Nathan assured her, and gently began rubbing his thumbs along her instep.

Ohhhh it was good, Jones realized. Not too hard, not too soft, just a gentle, soothing touch. Quickly she extended the other foot and waved grandly at him. "You have to do that one too—can't have jealousy, you know."

"I can handle both," he murmured, propping them on one thigh. "Believe me."

Jones gave a happy little sound and watched for a moment before looking up at Nathan, and asking, "So . . . you like my feet."

"I like your feet."

"Nathan--tell me about Donna," Jones asked softly. "Please?"

She watched him stroke her feet, big hands caressing the arches for a moment before Nathan finally looked up at her, and Jones noted how sad his expression was.

"She's . . . mentally ill. I'm not saying that vindictively, it's a medical fact. Donna is bipolar, and should be taking her Lithium and Aripiprazole but . . . she doesn't."

"Damn. I'm sorry," was all Jones could say. Pharmacology wasn't her strong point, but she knew how serious those particular medications were, and how important. Nathan bent back over her feet, his fingers toying now with her big toes.

"I met her at a dinner party for a retiring professor back in college, when I was finishing up my Masters. She was smart and seemed to know just what she wanted out of life, which was more than I did at that time. We got married a year later, and things were . . . good. In the beginning."

"Nathan—" Jones felt a surge of embarrassment and pity well up inside.

"No, you should know. You should hear it from me, and not second or third-hand rumor," he mumbled, "If you haven't already."

Jones hung her head. "Um . . ."

Nathan laughed humorlessly. "Newt. He knows the truth. Anyway, things started to go downhill even before Susan was born. Donna had to go off her meds during the pregnancy, and just . . . never really went back on them afterwards. Nothing I could do or say could convince her. In her manic phases, she'd start these grandiose projects, like painting the living room, and then lose interest about half-way through, and leave a huge mess lying around. It was like living with a meth addict, and I got a crash course in juggling a career while taking care of a baby."

"Oh God," Jones whimpered, wincing. "Nathan, I'm so---"

"—Sorry?" he looked at her intently. "Don't be. It's done. Donna would take her meds for a week then stop for three. I fought with her, covered for her, tried to get her help and in the end it came down to the fact that she is lucid enough the majority of the time to be cognizant of her condition. She *chooses* to be a manic bi-polar, and there's nothing Susan or I can do about it. I blamed myself for years—for not seeing it for what it was, for letting her do what she wanted— It cost me a lot to admit it, but I can sleep now without worrying that I'll get a call from the cops, the hospital or the morgue."

Jones held his gaze, nothing the hint of relief in his eyes as she nodded. "It's left some scars though."

His expression became slightly haunted. "Yeah. You probably heard from Newt about that too. My primary coping medication during that time came in a bottle. Lots of bottles in fact. How the hell Susan ended up a relatively normal kid when caught between a sanity-challenged mother and an alcoholic father is one of the unexplained wonders of the universe."

For a moment they both were silent; Jones felt his hands cupping her feet, caressing them. She finally spoke up, her voice low. "You're a good father, Nathan. Not perfect, because who the hell is, but it's pretty clear that Susan's been a priority and I'm glad of that. I'm just sorry it's been so hard on _you _to deal with all of it."

He laughed then, and the melancholy chuckles bubbled out of him quickly. "I didn't. Don't make me out to be some sort of noble figure, because that's not how it happened. I drank all the way up until last year when I had . . . well, an epiphany I guess you'd call it. A wake-up call. Got myself a therapist, gave up the full-time drinking and I've been working on things ever since. I wish I could take the credit for turning things around, but that belongs to Suze's boyfriend, actually."

"Charlie?" Jones murmured. "The unofficial counselor at Western Summit?"

"One and the same," Nathan replied with a wry twist to his lips. "That's _one _kid who already has an inroad to his natural vocation."

The entire time he'd been speaking, Jones noticed that Nathan had continued to gently play with her feet, his touch ever so gentle. She giggled, and made to pull them away; Nathan gave them a soft squeeze before reluctantly letting them go.

"Anything else?" he asked. "Now's the time to ask."

"Two things then," Jones murmured, curling her feet up under her and leaning forward. "The boat?"

"The boat?" He echoed, puzzled, then blinked a little, remembering. "Ohhhhh, yeah, okay. That was the product of a lame-assed self esteem book that mentioned that hobbies are a good way of coping with stress. The first listed one was radio-controlled boats, so I took it up. Probably the most asinine hobby ever known, but at the time I was too depressed to care."

Jones was laughing now, trying to smother her amusement behind her hand, but the giggle spluttered through, and Nathan laughed with her for a moment. She scooted closer and he draped an arm along the back of the sofa, nearly touching her shoulder. "Second question?"

"What . . ." Jones asked him, leaning closer, "did you want . . . to talk about?"

Nathan blinked, enjoying the gentle shift from conversational space to something more intimate. He drew in a quick breath. "Talk about . . .?"

"Yeah . . . ." Jones teased, "You kept saying . . . that we need . . ." she gently tipped her face, giving him a languid smile.

". . . later," he growled, and bent forward to kiss her.

*** *** ***

Nathan tried hard to look nonchalant and calm as he lightly tapped the horn and let the car idle under the streetlight of the parking lot. At this time of night the place was empty except for the cars of the mall employees, and the November chill was seeping through.

_He _wasn't cold, though. Not at the moment, with the oh-so-recent memory of Jones still in his mouth and against his skin. Nathan drew in a breath, fighting against a grin, and flipped down the sun visor to stare at himself in the mirror on the back.

Nathan tried not to smirk; he looked better than he thought he would, considering he'd been making out on a sofa for the last hour. The sweet memory of Jones over him, planting kisses all along his face and down his neck still made him a bit breathless, and of course there was the tangle of arms and legs, and GOD the feel of her holding him tightly was still a little overwhelming, especially when she wriggled.

Damn it, it had been good. Dinner, some honest talk and then somehow they'd closed the gap along the sofa and after that it was kissing and whispers and touching . . . some of it gentle, some of it brazenly not so gentle. He'd loved the feel of her weight on him, the press of her body to his. Nathan hadn't realized how long it had been since he'd been simply held, or hugged in a non-platonic manner.

Then Suze had called for a ride, and while that normally wasn't an annoyance, this time—

But Jones understood and shooed him out with husky promises for another time soon, which was just one reason more that Nathan considered himself lucky as hell.

His skin felt alive under his clothes, and he licked his lips, still tasting her last kiss, which had been succulent and tender. Nathan needed to calm down before Suze reached the car, but his senses kept tingling and he fought hard to look slightly bored.

_Next time, definitely second base_, he thought confidently. _Definitely._

He finally spotted Suze strolling out with one of the taller, older girls; they parted company under the light and his daughter reached the car, tugging open the door and flinging herself gracefully in with a sigh. "It's _freezing_ out there!"

"Welcome to winter," Nathan told her. "Buckle up."

Susan snorted and did, settling into the passenger seat. They drove in silence for a while, and then out of the blue, she blurted, "Dad? Are you dating?"

Nathan froze for a moment, then forced himself to loosen his grip on the steering wheel. "Okay, that privacy thing you keep touting? It does go both ways, Suze," he replied in a voice that sounded a lot calmer than he thought it was.

She looked over at him, one eyebrow cocked. "So does the 'reasonable notice' clause, Dad."

"I'm not dating. I haven't gone out with anyone," Nathan managed without sounding defensive. Technically it was true, he argued with himself. Both occasions so far had been at home. Homes.

"Are you GOING to?"

There was a long pause as he considered how best to continue. Suze didn't seem hostile or upset, so Nathan risked a sidelong glance. "Maybe. Would that . . . bother you?"

"Well--I--it depends!" she spluttered, clearly caught a little off-guard by his admission. Still, he could tell she wasn't upset because her hands were still loose on her lap. When Susan got tense, she folded her arms in a self-protective sort of way.

Nathan took a chance on being glib. "I'm glad we got _that _over with. I may possibly date and you might possibly not mind. Good to work through these things."

"Da-ad. Come ON. You have to give me some warning here," Suze sighed, her mouth curling up ever so slightly. They'd reached the edge of the housing complex, and Nathan made the turn onto the main road.

"Warning? So I should get a tee shirt with a label, perhaps. "Contents liable to go to the movies and dinner at any time?"

"No, I mean--you SHOULD date. It just surprised me, that's all. Is she . . . nice?" she probed, finally looking at him. Nathan drew in a breath, realizing belatedly that he'd been dreading this part.

"She's . . . nice is a big part of it, yeah. She's . . . different too. In good ways. I'm not really sure I know how to explain it."

Another pause. He could see Suze's profile as she seemed to mull this over, and Nathan noted with a pang how pretty she was. How much more like a woman than a girl now.

"Well, okay then. When you do, you can tell me," she murmured.

"That . . . might take a few years--" Nathan sighed.

"I just better get to MEET her before then."

"As the woman I'm dating . . . yeah." This came out with slowness, and Nathan realized he was gripping the wheel hard once more. Dating. He'd just contradicted himself and Suze was sure to catch that.

"Wait, you mean I know her already?" came the confused question. He shot his daughter a quick, gauging glance and gave a fractional nod.

"Um, in a certain capacity . . . I guess it could be said that you know her."

"GIVE." Susan snapped, grinning wide.

Nathan took a deep breath, muttering, "MissJoneshappynow?" all in one rush of exhalation.

THAT definitely caught her off-guard. Susan blinked, her eyes wide for a moment. "The Art teacher?"

"No, as in the Devil in--wait, you're too young for that--yes. Miss Jones. The one across the hall from me, teaches you Art History third period." He was babbling now, but it was too late to try and make it sound mature.

"Oh." He watched her silently consider this, and Nathan didn't realize he was holding his breath until Suze murmured a soft little, "Cool."

"Cool. That's it?"

Suze gave a small delighted shrug. "Yeah, she IS nice."

"So I'm figuring out. Listen, are you_ sure_ you're okay with this? You don't need to say, talk it over with Charlie, or give me any lectures or . . . why are you grinning like that?" Nathan trailed off as the car pulled up along the driveway. He fumbled for the garage door remote.

"You're paranoid. It's cute."

"The paranoia or the dating? It's been a long time and I'm not exactly good at this."

"Both. Relax, Dad. You SHOULD date someone. As long as she doesn't go all weird, it's good." Suze assured him as they pulled into the garage. She unbuckled her belt and leaned over to pat his cheek.

"Um, thanks. I'll . . . work on it."

"Am I supposed to pretend I don't know now?"

Nathan undid his belt and pulled the key from the ignition. "She knows I'd be telling you pretty soon. Not like I can hide much from you, kiddo, and anyway, it's all very early right now. Nothing," he coughed dramatically, "uh, major. We're trying to keep this all very quiet, you know?"

"Uh-huh. Just...have a good time, okay? If she makes you happy..." Suze fished for her purse, not looking at him. Nathan wasn't sure if she was avoiding him or trying to hide the fact that she was nearly giggling now.

"Sure, TMI, I understand Susie-Q. Uh, is that my phone or yours?" He mumbled as a trilling sound echoed in the garage.

Suze fished into her bag, flipping the phone to her ear. "Mine--Gotta take this, 'scuse me."

Chattering to Ellen, she sauntered into the house, leaving Nathan to lean over the doorframe of the car, shaking his head and wondering not for the first time about the resilience of teenagers.


	8. Chapter 8

Later, after he'd locked up the house and surreptitiously set out a small dish of tuna along the back door, Nathan made his way to the master bedroom and debated with himself about a shower. Generally he took one in the morning, but after that intense session on the sofa with Jones, Nathan felt an erotic urgency he hadn't experienced in a hell of a long time.

He felt . . . horny. This honest revelation made Nathan stop in front of the bathroom mirror and stare at himself critically as he faced his reflection.

"Do you even know what you're getting into?" He demanded of the image in the mirror. Even as he said it, Nathan heard his mental reply.

_Her panties, with any luck. Face it; you want that woman BAD._

"That's the nature of hormones," he argued, feeling himself starting an erection. "It's biological response to collective stimulus designed to appeal to your gender."

_Just get in the shower_, his inner thoughts told him, _and let US do the thinking._

Giving up, Nathan stripped down, reached in to start the water, and stepped in when it was hot enough. He let himself get adjusted to the temperature, then reached for the soap, lathering it up in his hands. Nathan closed his eyes.

Jones. The scent, the taste, the _feel_ of her all rushed back, and he barely had a moment to brace himself against the back wall of the shower before he gripped his surging erection. The slickness of the suds helped, and slowly Nathan pumped himself, eyes closed against the steam as he gave in to sensation.

He couldn't draw it out, not after so much stimulation, and within a few moments Nathan groaned, his orgasm cresting as thick jets erupted to splash down the drain, washed away by the water. He leaned against the wall, huffing a little for breath, stunned by the intensity, and aware in an amused, self-conscious way that whatever _else _he might feel about Jones, it was the thought of her naked and under him, whispering three little words that had sent him over the edge.

*** *** ***

Jones wasn't sleeping well, and furthermore she understood exactly _why_ she kept tossing and turning. With a sigh, she rolled over and gently slid one hand down between her hips, feeling foolish and slightly desperate.

Damn the man for keeping her humming on the edge this way, she thought. It wasn't fair to be so turned on and all alone; not that sleeping together was going to happen right away. Jones knew she was impulsive at times, but neither she nor Nathan were quite ready to tumble into bed together _just _yet.

Still, she knew it was going to happen; the degree of chemistry and compassion between them was strong and getting stronger all the time. Jones lightly touched herself, imagining it to be Nathan's hand moving between her thighs. _That _was a lust-drenched image, and she groaned against the sensation, caught up in a fantasy of him with those damned reading glasses, murmuring naughty promises in her ear while he teased her . . .

Jones gave a soft little moan of pleasure and moments later let her orgasm wash over her in a sweet rush of release. She sighed, relaxing against her sheets, and her last thought before dropping off to sleep was that she might possibly have a fetish for his eyewear.

*** *** ***

"You need to go on a date," Newt announced after swallowing a large bite of burrito. "That's the best way to launch this sort of thing."

"A date," Nathan echoed, setting down his quesadilla and glancing sharply at his companion. They sat in Newt's office just off the gym, and out beyond the open door, the sounds of a pick-up basketball game punctuated the non-stop 70s music coming from the radio on the bookcase.

"A. Date." Newt nodded. "As in, you pick her up, take her out somewhere, pay for the meal and get to know her. Or, you pick her up, take her to a movie or some performance somewhere and get to know her. That process by which a man starts to increase his chances of getting laid."

"Do _not_ go there," Nathan warned, pointing a mildly accusing finger at his companion. "I'm now officially closing this discussion."

"And let's face it; you _need_ to get laid," Newt continued without acknowledging Nathan's order. "If you were wound any tighter, you could power one of those wind farms out in California."

"I am _not_ wound up," Nathan argued. "And since when did my love life become a concern of yours anyway?"

"There's Julianne over in the district office—she likes you," Newt ambled on, taking another bite of his lunch. "And that gal Katie, over at Hillsboro Middle. She's a history teacher too."

"No," Nathan growled, reaching for his iced tea, "I'm not interested in the Julieannes and Katies out there, Newt. And I don't _need_ to get laid, all right? I'm fine."

"Would it be too childish of me to say 'liar, liar, pants on fire?" Newt muttered. "At least admit the idea of taking Jones out _has_ occurred to you."

Nathan's suspicion deepened. "What did you say to her?"

"What?" Now it was Newt's turn to look wary.

"Oh God, I don't believe this. You talked to Jones about me?" Nathan snapped. He already knew that Newt had, but any opportunity to make the man feel guilty was a chance to manipulate him, and that was just fun.

"Don't get your boxers in a knot," Newt sighed. "We got to talking and I _may _have mentioned that you were interested in her---"

"You WHAT?"

"—and that since you'd been single for a while and didn't seem to be interested in anyone that I knew about, that the two of you might hit it off," Newt finished, trying to looked concerned and caring.

Nathan dropped his head down and lightly bounced it on the desk. "If you weren't three inches taller and fifty pounds heavier than I am I would _so_ kill you."

"Sixty pounds—I've been working out," Newt pointed out helpfully. "And I don't see what the hell the big deal is here. You butt in about me and Gwen all the time—"

"I do NOT butt in! You keep _asking_ me for advice and I give it to you—"

"—So just because I want to return the favor—"

"This is not returning a favor!" Nathan growled. "This is making me look like a pathetic loser who needs a friend to fix him up!"

"Well, if the shoe fits . . ." Newt muttered. "I mean Jesus, Nate—it's been what? Seven years since you've had two-person sex, right?"

"Lunch is over," Nathan sighed, rolling up his quesadilla and expertly shooting it into the garbage can in the corner of the office. "And this conversation never happened. There is no record of you talking to me about dating Jones."

"Okay," Newt agreed quickly. _Too_ quickly. Nathan shot him a suspicious look. "What?"

"You gave in too easily," Nathan complained. "You're planning something, Cortese, and it had better not be romantic."

"Romantic?" this came not from Newt, but from Gwen, who peeked around the doorway of the office, looking suspicious. "Sorry Nathan, but I can vouch for the fact that Newt swings only one way, and I've got the exclusive rights to the direction."

She held out a list, and Newt made to grab it, blushing, but Nathan neatly intercepted it, and peered down at the items on it.

"Basil? Olive oil? Porcini mushrooms?" he read off, trying not to smirk. "Doesn't sound like your usual plans."

"Now who's getting nosy?" Newt grumbled, tugging the list out of Nathan's fingers and tucking it away in his pocket. "Hello Ms. Henderson, and how are you?"

"Oh I'm fine, Coach Cortese," she murmured, keeping up the formality within earshot of the students playing basketball nearby. "Just thought I'd pass along your section of homework for um, tonight's class."

"Thanks."

Nathan noted that Newt was actually red in the face, and that Gwen looked slightly embarrassed as well. He turned to her, pausing a moment before saying anything.

Gwen Henderson was full. Not fat; but lush and full-figured. She looked as if she could run a corporation or a family farm with equal aplomb, and discipline in her classes was strict. Most of the time Gwen wore denim skirts and plain blouses over her generous frame, her straight mahogany hair done up in a big tidy knot on the back of her head, her bangs fluffy and flyaway. Once, after several beers, Newt admitted to Nathan that her hair fascinated him.

"When Gwennie lets it down, she can _sit_ on it," Newt sighed. "Gorgeous stuff, all warm and sweet-smelling. God it's a turn-on of the first magnitude, I'm telling you . . . I get to pull those pins or clips out, and it just tumbles down . . ."

Nathan looked at Gwen and cocked his head. "Cooking classes?"

"Beginning cuisine of the Mediterranean," she corrected, slightly pink in the face. "Not all of us have natural talent in a kitchen, all right?"

"No, no, I understand. That is, I can understand _you_ taking a class. But Newt?"

"Hey, no need to be sexist there," Newt protested. "A lot of chefs are male, you know."

"Sure, yeah I get that," Nathan nodded, tongue firmly in cheek. "I'm just . . . surprised you're taking it up, that's all."

"Better than boats," Newt grumbled. "Speaking of which, you've got to get another hobby, too, Gardner. Ever thought about needlepoint?"

The bell rang, saving Nathan from having to reply, but his swift, almost graceful one-fingered salute as he headed for the door made both Gwen and Newt laugh.

*** *** ***

On Thursday they sat in the kitchen quietly, both working on their own projects; Susan had a calculator and a guidebook to Buffalo University while Nathan sat jotting notes for the chapter on the Louisiana Purchase on his laptop. Outside, the afternoon sky was gray and heavy with unfallen snow.

"So . . . when are you asking her out?" came the slightly absent question. Nathan looked up, pulled from the trials of Lewis and Clark and blinking.

"What?"

"Miss Jones," Suze asked in an absent tone of voice, making a notation on the pad in front of her. Nathan kept his expression neutral.

He'd been toying with the idea, but hearing Suze ask out loud---

"Why?"

"Well, there _is_ this thing called a 'weekend' coming up, and traditionally people use it to advance their social lives," Suze teased gently.

"Hmm. I hadn't thought about it," Nathan lied sweetly as he closed out his file. "She's probably busy."

"Have you checked?"

"No."

"Okay," Suze murmured. "Because I happen to know that the mall is holding one of those big painting shows this Saturday, and that means Murano's Art Supply is going to be having all kinds of sales. I'm going to miss it, though."

Nathan couldn't help himself. "Why?"

"Because this is the weekend when Marilyn's taking Charlie and me to go look at the campus again. We're going to stay overnight and get a feel for the neighborhoods," Suze reminded him. "We talked about this a month ago, Dad, remember?"

With a pang of guilt, Nathan did. He rubbed his eyes. "Right, right—are you sure? It might snow, you know."

"Come one—" Susan shot him a patient look. "It's the only chance we'll get before Thanksgiving. Just give her a call . . . see how it goes."

He felt himself redden a bit, and cleared his throat to cover it. "Art show?"

"Yep. There's a coupon in the flyers from the mailbox. Just in case," Suze murmured, and bent her head over the pad again, scribbling something. Nathan made a show of stretching, then carefully got up and made his way out of the kitchen, pulling out his cell phone.

*** *** ***

Jones stood in front of the huge canvas, eyes wide, focusing intently for a long, long moment. She let herself get lost in the colors and textures before her, drinking it all in until she felt utterly saturated in the picture, drenched with the hues and strokes and marriage of paint to surface.

"It's . . . almost there," she murmured softly. Two men turned to look at her; Nathan, who stood at her left, and the artist, who was seated on a canvas director's chair near a stack of other paintings.

"Almost where?" Nathan murmured, giving the painting a skeptical glance.

The artist, a lean older man with a goatee, leaned forward, his expression curious. "Almost?"

Jones kept her eyes on the painting, and waved her hands in gentle flowing motions that followed the lines of paint in the middle of the art. "Almost. I can see the polychromatic intensity overlaid best right here, but you don't let it stay as the focus of the piece. You've put all your best effort into the lamp when you needed to balance it with the peaches and the bowl and create a nice triangle of concentration and let the colors mute themselves out to the shadowy edges. Have you done one yet just using the lamp?"

The artist looked startled, then redoubled his attention to Jones. "I haven't, but how did you even *know* I was going to do one?"

She turned to him, smiling. "Because it's your favorite part of _this_ painting, clearly. You love the different textures and patterns, and if I were you, I'd be itching to try to interpret and re-interpret them with different shadings. There's a real _depth_ to the way you've gone into it, here . . ." Jones touched the canvas lightly, ". . . and here. A lot of high-quality focus and I'm awed by it."

Both men were staring at her, and she bit her lip. Nathan looked again at the painting, squinting up his face. "I see a lamp and a bowl of peaches. Where's all that other . . . . stuff?"

Jones took in a breath, then moved to stand just behind his right ear, leaning on Nathan as she began to point out the details. "Okay, Nathan, just--Look at the blend of colors, right at the edge of the lamp. See the way the indigo begins to lighten out and then the streak of pink blends over it to bring out the dimension of the curve? Look at it carefully, and you'll see that under _that,_ just in the faintest trace is a hint of butter yellow. It's _barely_ there, but it gives that curve just that more intensity, more _life!_ SEE it?"

"Damn . . . ." Nathan blinked, slightly amazed that he _could_ see exactly what she meant; the potbelly bulge of the lamp arched out at him now, and he turned to Jones, nearly bumping noses with her.

She smirked. "Art; I see it."

"You know a hell of a lot for a casual buyer," the artist smiled, his tone curious. "I'm going to guess that you paint a little yourself, right?"

"A little," Jones admitted. "But not as much these days. Still, it's wonderful to see what everyone here has to show."

They chatted for a while longer, and Jones turned to see Nathan watching her, his expression a shy blend of awe and pride. It startled her, and she blushed a little, not sure where to look, so she took his hand as they headed for the art supply store.

"Okay, my art supply education begins and ends with Crayola," Nathan said under his breath, "So I'm leaving this all up to you, but the coupons are courtesy of Suze."

"Coupons are good," Jones smiled, "let's shop, darling."


	9. Chapter 9

They roamed the aisles and Jones chattered about tools and brands and experiences with products as she began to fill a basket. One basket grew to two, and Nathan upgraded to a cart as more materials were added. By the time they made it to the checkout, Jones was blushing again, and shaking her head. "Overboard. Definitely went overboard. Oh well; it will all get used."

"Can I watch?" Nathan asked as he unloaded a few empty canvases and tubes of paint onto the checkout conveyor. "I'll stay quiet, I swear."

"Heh, you can _pose," _Jones informed him with a lift of her chin. "At least, some of your accessories can. I want to do a still life."

She laughed at his startled, suspicious and slightly scared expression.

"Pose?"

"No nudes," Jones assured him, and added after a little pause, "at least, not yet. No, I have something else in mind for this afternoon if the light stays good and you're not busy . . ."

"We're doing dinner," he reminded her, his expression shifting to a much shyer look. "I'm taking you to Maxwell's."

Her eyebrows went up. "Okay, I'm new in town and even _I've _heard of Maxwell's."

Nathan managed a twisted grin as he rolled the cart towards the double doors of the exit. "Consider it the 'official' first date then, shall we?"

"Oh let's," Jones agreed, blushing. "So how fancy are we talking? I don't need to go rent a ball gown or anything, do I?"

"Hard to say from the female perspective," Nathan murmured, thinking hard. "I can tell you that from *my* side of things it means suit, tie, aftershave and clean underwear. I'll shave, brush my teeth, fret about grey hair and check my breath obsessively."

"I see," Jones nodded solemnly, although her eyes twinkled. "So I won't be the only one mainlining tic tacs."

"*Your* breath is fine," Nathan sighed, loading the art supplies into the backseat of his car. "No complaints here, and keep in mind we've already shared, um, orality, after a pizza with garlic, onions _and_ anchovies."

"No, I hadn't forgotten," Jones murmured happily. "Not at all. So, this means I'll shave my legs and pits, fret about fancy 'do or not, fiddle with jewelry selections and wonder what polish to wear."

"Polish?" she heard a quaver in his voice and shot a sidelong glance at his profile.

"I have lotttttttts of colors. Comes with being an artist, you know. Everything from Bunny Nose Pink all the way through Slutty Red and Cocoa Sins," Jones admitted. "I never do my fingers, but I _always_ do my toes."

"Is that a fact?" this time his voice was steadier, but there was still a little note in it that made her giggle. She reached over and lightly dropped a hand on Nathan's thigh; he swallowed visibly.

"Just come out and admit it, Gardner. You like feet."

"I . . ." he began, and stopped. She waited to see if Nathan would continue without prompting and when he didn't, Jones lightly squeezed his thigh.

"I like feet, yes, okay? I like *your* feet, and this isn't something I understand, but there it is," he admitted in a rush of words.

"Confession," Jones told him with a smile, "Is good for the soul. I have no problem with you liking my feet. Got a color of polish you prefer?"

She loved the way he gripped the steering wheel, and the way the dimples bracketed his mouth.

"Surprise me; you're pretty damned good at that," Nathan murmured.

They got to her house and Jones began leading the way inside, kicking off her shoes again, and wrestling with some of the larger canvases. She carried them to what Nathan assumed was a spare bedroom, but the chaos there startled him, and he looked around at the unexpected clutter. "Still moving in?"

"You could say that," she sighed. "I want to set it up as a studio, but I haven't had much of a chance to move the furniture around and get things put away. I want to get it just _right,_ and because I'm worried I won't, I . . . haven't started."

There was a pause; one of those honest and painful ones that held more in it just by being there.

Nathan set down the bags he was carrying, stepped over to her and grabbed Jones, kissing her with a directness that startled them both. When he pulled back, he held her gaze. "You know what? We—you and I-- have to stop hesitating and take a few chances. We just _do."_

Jones stared at him, her gaze intense, and Nathan went on, voice quick and low. "Because I don't know about you, sweetheart, but I'm starting to realize that all this uncertainty is a sure way of never moving forward, and what we have between us—what we _could _have between us--is sure as hell worth the risk. This room, my life, they're the same. Stagnant little spaces that need throw pillows and fresh paint and beautiful art teachers in them, making the good kinds of changes."

He paused, and the air between them felt charged with prickles and sparks. Jones sucked in a hurt breath and surged forward, kissing him with everything she had.

It was a lot, since it knocked them both into the wall, and they spun together, locked in sweet, slurpy connection, clinging, kissing, stumbling and ultimately laughing together as Nathan flopped on the carpet, pulling Jones down on him.

"Good," Jones huffed. "Yes. I want you!"

"Ohhh--" Nathan chuffed back, laughing, "—kay!"

They went back to kissing, this time enjoying the immediate benefits of being horizontal as they did it, and Jones found herself wriggling again. It was all right though, because she got to wriggle against Nathan who seemed to enjoy it, judging by his groans.

"Ohyeah, I am _liking_ the mambo of your hips," he managed as he licked her neck. "Very much."

"You," Jones informed him breathlessly, "Taste good. I'm on the Pill, that's okay with you, right?"

"God yes," Nathan growled back, rolling with her until she was pinned and giggling under him. After that, they didn't speak much, but they didn't have to, either.

They managed to peel each other out of _most _of their clothing; it was a rush job and Nathan was amused that Jones seemed determined to touch every bit of uncovered skin she could reach. He didn't mind; hell, it was _wonderful _to feel her hands running along his shoulders and down his back. They were warm, and lingered, moving slowly. Nathan couldn't decide what to focus on; exploring Jones or savoring her exploration of him, so he vacillated, happily.

Jones decided he was gorgeous, in his 'last puppy in the window' sort of way, and despite the relentless urge to get to the main event, she kept getting sidetracked by the taste of Nathan's ear, or the curve of his bicep, or the way the shallow groove of his spine felt under her fingers. The scent of his skin had her slightly breathless now, and with a growl she wrapped one leg around his hip.

"Sorry, need you _now_, Nathan—!" Jones murmured between kisses.

"Likewise," he grunted, and caught her hips. It didn't take long for them to shift and in one deep, slick stroke he was _in,_ driving the breath from her with a grateful, hungry moan of pure pleasure.

And the rhythm caught between them, strong and hard and so shockingly _good_ that Jones felt herself losing focus with each thrust, wanting more, wanting it deeper and harder NOW---

Nathan fought to hold back, but it had been too damned long, and the luscious blend of heat, squeeze and lust drove him forward. He growled as the white-hot flare of his climax wracked his frame, leaving him a heaving, shuddering weight on the cushion of his lover's belly.

They clung to each other for long, stunned moments, cradled and comforted in the circle of each other's arms on the carpet. Nathan had his face buried in the damp crook of Jones' neck, and she slowly stroked his hair, touch soothing and sure.

"Wow," she murmured in a happy little whisper. "My ass is so rug burned right now, and I don't even care. Oh GOD I needed you. I needed that . . . moment. You know? Of _doing_ it. The taking chances thing."

"We're insane," Nathan agreed, but didn't sound the least bit upset by it. "Certifiable. Um, you came, right? I'm pretty sure all that yelling—"

"Ohyeah," she assured him, arms tightening around his shoulders. "The screaming is a pretty big clue."

"Good," Nathan blurted. "I'm out of practice, and to be honest, I was really, _really_ um, distracted by my own major orgasm there . . . thank you."

She wanted to laugh, but smothered a quick little blink of tears against his cheek. "Thank _you. _Can we take this party off my studio rug and onto someplace more geared for round two?"

"Yes," Nathan agreed, lifting his head and kissing her firmly. "Round two. Like the sound of that."

He rolled over, did up his pants and stood, holding out a hand to Jones, who took it and rose up with his help. She slid into his hug and pressed close, whispering in Nathan's ear. "I need a nap first, though—is that okay?"

"Saturdays are made for napping."

*** *** ***

Nathan woke up, disoriented only for a moment, and then the flood of sweet memory made him smile up at the unfamiliar ceiling. He felt Jones along his back, wrapped around him, one arm at his waist and the warmth of her there made him sigh happily.

_Could get used to this. Very used to this._

A check of his watch showed him they'd been out for almost two hours, and Nathan debated his options: wake her and start getting ready to head out to Maxwell's, or . . .

He went with the 'or' immediately.

Moving slowly, Nathan turned, letting Jones softly protest in her sleep and roll over on her back, settling down again into slumber. He lay on his side, watching her for a while, locking the moment deep into his memory, for reconsideration later.

She was to his eyes, beautiful. From her small nose to tousled hair, from her elegant eyebrows and pert, expressive lips, Nathan found Jones to be utterly perfect for him, and so little of it had to do with the way she looked. More of it, Nathan knew, was about who she _was _and how she made him feel. He'd gone so long without feeling much; years of indifference building around his soul had left him wondering if it was even worth anything.

But Jones had gotten through. She'd found the little cracks in his armor, the ones that Suze and Charlie knew about, and slipped inside to find him. Nathan laughed; poetic and corny as hell, but the analogy held. Miss Justinia Jones had done it—she'd gotten through.

He reached out, restless to touch her again, and make things so very, very good for her that she'd stay.

As his hand slid over her stomach, her eyes opened, and Jones rolled her head, smiling at him. "Hello there, Mr. Gardner."

"Miss Jones," he murmured, amused to play along. She was rolling to face him now, and her expression was definitely mischievous now; years of working with students had given him an edge in spotting trouble.

"I like you in my bed," she told him gently. "You're nicely warm and you don't roll around a lot or steal the covers. Big plusses in my book."

"Thank you," Nathan murmured. "It's a pretty comfortable bed, and I adore the hostess." As he said this, he pulled her closer to him, and Jones giggled, cuddling back.

"So. Any exotic tattoos I should know about?" Jones asked. "We didn't have time for the full body inspection prior."

"No tattoos," Nathan told her. "Although Suze tried to talk me into one when I took her down to get hers."

Her eyebrow went up, and Nathan sighed. "Yeah. For her birthday she wanted one and I was dead set against it until she showed me what she wanted. Not a butterfly or a heart or anything like that. No, _my_ kid had to hit me right where I'm weakest. She wanted a quote: "_There is no freedom like seeing myself as I am and not losing heart._' I couldn't turn her down."

"It's pretty . . . pithy, for a seventeen year old," Jones agreed softly. "Who's it from?"

"A priest named Elizabeth J. Canham," Nathan replied. "Suze read a couple of her books on the advice of a therapist."

"And it's . . ." Jones asked.

Nathan smiled. "It's on the back of her hip, and small enough to look classy, as tattoos go. I've told her if she gets any others, to try and make them as meaningful."

"Wise advice," Jones agreed, kissing his shoulder. He looked down at her and smirked.

"How about you?"

Jones looked shifty. "What about me?"

"Tattoos. From that expression, I'm guessing you've got artwork somewhere and now I want to see," he rumbled, feeling delighted. He wasn't a huge fan of tattoos, but sensed that whatever Jones had was sure to be something . . . interesting. He pulled back the covers and waggled his eyebrows; Jones squealed and immediately covered her breasts with her hands, although it didn't do much to obstruct the view.

"Hey!"

"I'm very determined, although occasionally I can be . . . sidetracked," Nathan told her, and began to nuzzle her neck. After token protests, Jones lay back and let him drape himself over her, giving as many kisses as she was getting.

"Let me know when I'm getting warmer," Nathan teased, and Jones laughed again.

"I think you'll find it . . . soon enough . . . ooohhh . . ."

He did, eventually. It was just under her belly button, and smaller than his thumbnail; an elegant set of characters.

"Whoah," Nathan breathed, admiring the calligraphy distractedly. His body was caught up in the sweet honey scent and warmth of Jones, but this intriguing little surprise brought him up short. "Japanese?"

"Chinese," Jones murmured, looking down at him shyly. "It's something I needed at a time when I wasn't sure of myself or my life, and ever since I got it, I know who I am."

"Is it . . . your name?" Nathan asked, tracing the characters with a reverent fingertip.

"In a way," Jones replied, her voice solemn. It means 'artist.'"

Nathan blinked, and bent to kiss it, his lips lingering. With care, he kissed the rest of her stomach and took in the sight of the curly dark blonde triangle below it with a definite throb of interest.

A _hard _throb.

"Ohhh, I like this, too."

"Is that a fact?" Jones murmured, a laugh in her voice. "I never would have guessed."

Nathan didn't reply; he leaned over her, one elbow braced on either side of her hips, and nuzzled gently. The warm perfume of her: sweet, musky and utterly feminine sent a rush of arousal so sharp through him that Nathan froze, but he forced himself to relax.

"I'm ticklish," Jones warned him, her hands stroking along his back.

Nathan lightly stroked her thighs, letting his warm breath stir the curls a bit, and was rewarded when Jones squirmed. "Good. I'm pretty feedback-oriented."

"Nathan!" she spluttered, trying not to giggle. He brought one hand up and gently but insistently worked it between her thighs, parting them, and then letting his fingers trace along the soft little seam there, hidden in the curls.

He hummed, softly, unable to resist that happy sound, and bent to nuzzle, driven now by hunger and desire. Jones had a delicious mouth; Nathan had no doubt that the rest of her was as lusciously sweet and he was eager to taste. Working his shoulders forward, he very gently rubbed one finger along her cleft, opening it and letting his tongue lightly glide along the slick pinkness there.

Jones wriggled, her hips rolling restlessly under him, but Nathan braced his forearms against the bones of them, taking his time, nearly overwhelmed by the sweet glaze of her clear and evident arousal. Happily, he bent his head lower and ran his tongue along the tender furrow, focusing solely on the warm feast before him.

He hadn't done this in a hell of a long time, but Nathan was determined not to rush the experience, and leisurely nibbled his way from the inside of one thigh to the other before mouthing the more tender sides of Jones' cleft, feeling her responses, and enjoying the process of learning what got the best ones. She seemed to like gentle nips along the join of thigh to torso, and when Nathan began licking, he felt the tension begin to vibrate through her belly. Carefully he pushed her thighs wider, caught up in the erotic beauty of her delicate curls parting wetly for him.

"Nathan, you are driving . . . me . . . crazy!" he heard her whimper in a distracted tone. "I'm going to get . . . SO even!"

That made him laugh; he settled in and tenderly buried his face between her legs.

*** *** ***

Jones was going out of her mind. She raked her nails along Nathan's back, shifting restlessly because she knew damned well that detonation was just about to happen, big time.

God, Nathan was good at orality; TOO good. He was delicate and steady, and if he didn't stop, she was going to . . . going to . . .

Jones felt the tension stiffen her stomach, and the sweet, hot charge of orgasm flare between her hips as Nathan lapped at the hot button there. She arched, head back, eyes closed and howled softly, drowning in pleasure that rolled over her in rich, full waves that left her limp by the time she could breathe again—

Which was a while.

Jones drew in a happy breath and looked down along the length of her body. Nathan was still draped over part of it, his cheek on one of her thighs as he grinned up at her. "It's a good thing we're at _your _place, because you are . . ."

"Loud," Jones admitted with an embarrassed expression. "Yes, I usually have a pillow handy so I don't make an idiot of myself, but you sort of caught me off-guard, and ohGod, thank you! That was . . ." she waved a hand weakly and rolled her eyes.

"My utter pleasure," Nathan murmured, pleased. "Really. At the risk of sounding like a pervert, I could spend a lot of time doing that. I'd _like _to spend a lot of time doing that."

She giggled and reached over, slipping a hand under his bare hip and gently cupping his turgid shaft where it was pressed up against the sheet. "Are you up for some reciprocation?"

Jones was startled to see him look stunned, and a part of her wondered if his ex had something to do with it.

"You don't have to," Nathan murmured, but she caught the amazed tone in his voice. She shifted and patted the mattress beside her, smiling at him.

"Oh I _want_ to, believe me," Jones informed him with a sultry smile, "at the moment I am feeling the need to share the bliss."

He still seemed uncertain, but Jones waited until he was on his back, and she spent time kissing him, running her fingers through his hair. His face smelled of her musk, but she didn't mind, and each kiss made him relax a bit more as she tasted herself in his mouth.

It was intimately sexy and she loved the way he looked on her sheets; tousled and untidy; the antithesis of orderly, fastidious Mr. Gardner.

"You can trust me," she assured him, "anyone with a tongue like yours deserves the very best, darling."

That brought a chuckle, and she began to kiss her way down his torso, taking time to meander from nipple to nipple first. Nathan had small ones, but sensitive, she discovered, and a fine patch of dark curls across his chest. Masculine without being overwhelming. His muscles were nice too, and trim, and he was a bit ticklish himself, shifting as she kissed his ribs.

"Hey!" he protested, but Jones licked, and he slid warm fingers through her hair and gently tipped her face up to look at her. "No tickle!"

"No tickle," she repeated solemnly, and then grinned. "_This _time."

"Jones—!" Nathan warned, but he was grinning. She moved lower, nipping at his flat, small navel, and kissing the dark trail of fur leading down from it, and shifted to kneel between his knees.

It was a lovely sight, Jones admitted to herself, and smiled. Nathan Gardner was a handsome man; naked, he looked even better. She dropped a hand onto his stomach and stretched out, resting her forearms on his hips and nestling down between his pale thighs.

"Oh I like the look of _this,"_ she murmured appreciatively. "For me?"

He still looked tense, but from where she was staring, parts of him were highly enthusiastic about her touch. "I'm definitely willing to share," he murmured, trying to sit up.

Jones shook her head. "Lie back;_ I _get to have some fun!" She turned her attention to the thicket of soft dark fur that grew from hipbone to hipbone and cushioned Nathan's masculinity. "You've got a nice package."

"Thank you; I sent away for it from a catalog," Nathan murmured solemnly, and she giggled, her hair falling over her face before she brushed it out of the way again and smirked up the length of his body at him.

"God you're fun," she smiled. "And sexy. Serious trouble, Gardner, that's what you are. Let's see if I can make you give it up for me."

"That might not be as difficult as you thin---ohhhhdamnnnn!" he grunted as Jones wrapped her lips around him and slid his shaft into her mouth. She moved slowly, giving a happy hum as she did so, and was gratified to feel Nathan's erection swell in quick response.

"Fuck," Nathan growled. "Oh fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck . . . ."

Jones nearly giggled again at this, but it was hard to do with her mouth full, and she enjoyed the feel and taste of Nathan, so she set about driving him crazy.

This _wasn't _difficult, apparently; from the sound of his raspy curses and the rock of his hips it was obvious that Nathan Gardner was surging ever closer to climax and fighting it. Jones slowed to give him breathing room, then started up again, lazily swirling her tongue around his shaft and sucking lightly, her fingers lightly caressing the heavy silken balls below it.

There was tension building along the long muscles of his thighs; Jones could feel it under her forearms and moved to a steady pace for long, sensual minutes, readying herself and feeling smug when Nathan finally tensed, his fingers gripping the sheets, his hips pistoning up in hard, sharp thrusts. "Unnnnnghhhh!"

Jones swallowed quickly; semen wasn't the best flavor in the world but she knew how intimate the gesture was, and because this was Nathan, she was more than willing to do it. Lightly she clambered her way up his body, giggling again at how utterly relaxed he was now—just a languid form on wrinkled sheets, a few damp curls plastered against his forehead. Jones settled down against him, and gave a happy sigh, fitting nicely to his side.

Nathan surprised her by slipping an arm around her shoulders and pulling her tightly against him, his mouth seeking hers. Barely pulling back, he kissed softly all the way to her ear and yodeled, "thank yoooooou," before sighing deeply himself.

"Feeling better?" he added. "Because right now I'm completely vulnerable to any schemes or evil plans you might be hatching, Miss Jones. Want the deed to my house? An option on my left kidney? Yours."

"Mmmmmm," Jones murmured, snuggling her face up against his bare shoulder. "How about a nice batch of highly incriminating photos?"

"I'd be happy to take them of _you," _Nathan nodded, blissfully. "My laptop needs new wallpaper and a picture of you, naked----"

She laughed, feeling cozy and happy. "I don't *think* so, Mr. Gardner—you're not the type to have risqué pictures at school."

I'll keep them at home," he promised, his eyes closed now. "Stick them up out in the garage and promote the masculine stereotype. Did I say thank you?"

"Yes you did."

"Mmmm," Nathan murmured, kissing the top of her head. "I'm saying it again then. Thank you. Falling asleep now."

Jones yawned. "Me too."

They slept.


	10. Chapter 10

Nathan woke lying on his side to find Jones on her hands and knees on the mattress, peeking over his shoulder; in the golden glow of the bedroom lamp she looked angelic.

Nakedly angelic.

"I'm hungry," she announced cheerfully. "Get dressed and let's go eat."

"Good idea," he yawned. "What time is it?"

"Nearly seven," Jones replied, bouncing off the edge of the bed. Parts of her bounced too, and Nathan was enchanted. He stretched and got up, feeling only slightly self-conscious now. Jones came over and put her arms around him, kissing him quickly. "We're naked."

"A condition I'm all in favor of," Nathan told her, "but it would probably get us in trouble in public. At least, me."

"Me too, since it's nearly cold enough to snow," Jones pointed out, nibbling his neck. "Here's what I think we should do. Go get food, pick up clothes for you, feed your cat, and then come back here for dessert before bed. Is that . . . okay?" she trailed off, not completely certain now. Jones felt Nathan relax in her hug, and realized he too, had been uncertain.

"Sounds wonderful but . . ." he added, "I don't have a cat."

"Okay, let's feed that annoying stray that Susan's so fond of then. And get a toothbrush."

"You really want me—"

"—for a sleepover, yes. As long as you brush your teeth," Jones told him firmly. "A lot of the rest is negotiable."

"I can't ask for a fairer deal than that," Nathan agreed, letting his hands wander down her back to cup her butt. "Where are we going?"

"Noodle Doodle?" Jones offered, just to see Nathan wince.

"I wouldn't take the _cat_ to Noodle Doodle—not that I have a cat," he amended, and then drew in a breath. "Damn—Maxwell's---!"

"Another time," Jones told him, running her nails up his bare spine. "I just want something casual, Mr. Gardner. Something filling and basic."

"Hmmmmmm," he purred, closing his eyes with pleasure at her touch. "There's Steak-Out. If we order it over the phone it can be ready by the time we get there."

"Good plan," Jones praised. "How do you feel about ice cream?"

"I'm for it," Nathan told her. "I know that's an extreme position for a conservative like me, but it's how I was raised."

Jones giggled again, shaking her bushy blonde curls out. "Atta person; take a stand for what you believe in. Are you willing to share particular flavors, or is that too personal at this point in time?"

"Speaking as a Rocky Road man," Nathan intoned, "I'm supportive of the chocolate varieties."

Jones happily goosed him. "You've got MY support!"

It was fun to wrestle and try to place orders over the phone at the same time. Jones realized that Nathan had some incredibly sneaky maneuvers, such as nipping her collarbone and squeezing her butt, both of which tended to make her yodel a bit.

"Are you okay, ma'am?" came the worried voice of the Steak-Out clerk over the cell phone as Jones tried to slither away from Nathan's grasp.

"Yes, I'm fine. The, uh, TV is on. Monster movie, I think--"

Nathan's eyebrows went up in silent outrage at this insult, and she had to smother a giggle as she passed the phone to him. It took everything Jones had not to laugh at the sight of Nathan Gardner, totally naked and talking in a calm voice over the phone. "Yes, hello. I'd like to order a number six T-bone medium rare, with sautéed mushrooms."

"Mr. Gardner?" the clerk asked.

Both Jones and Nathan froze for a moment, and then Jones took advantage, pouncing like a tiger. Nathan gave a grunt and they wrestled across the bed. "Yes . . . Zane, Mr. Gardner. I . . . also need a number four petite New York strip, medium rare," he muttered, trying to fend off Jones and keep his decorum over the connection. "And some of those plank cut fries, please."

"You got it," came the cheerful reply. "Hey, is the pre-Civil War worksheet due on Monday or Wednesday?"

"Wednesday," Nathan replied, gritting his teeth as Jones playfully used hers into his shoulder. "Total?"

"Twenty-two twenty seven," Zane returned, "Ready in twenty, sir. See you soon and thanks for calling Steak-Out!"

Nathan broke the connection, tossed the phone to the floor and prepared to get revenge.

*** *** ***

They agreed that Jones should stay in the car while Nathan picked up the order; while a relationship between teachers wasn't forbidden, both of them felt that keeping it private was a good idea for the moment. Nathan parked around the corner and stepped into the nearly empty shop, forcing himself to look calm as the lovely scent of charbroiling steak wafted out. Behind the counter, Zane brightened. "Hey Mr. Gardner! Got your order right here."

"Thanks," Nathan returned, fishing for his wallet and feigning a nonchalant attitude. It was almost worthy of an Oscar, he thought, until Zane grinned at him knowingly.

"Got a date, huh?"

"What?" Nathan fought a surge of panic as he handed over the cash.

The teenager leaned over the counter and nodded his head sagely. "Two steaks, man, and one of them that New York cut that the chicks dig. I know Susan's outta town so—am I right?"

Nathan took a deep breath and held Zane's eager gaze, and a sense of impishness flooded through him as he thought: _What would Jones do?_

That was easy, and Nathan knew what to say; he gave a nod and rubbed his lips. "Well, after the flowers, I felt I owed her at a dinner . . . the least I could do, as a gentleman. After all, it's not as if she's . . . married."

"I _knew_ it!" Zane blurted, then looked around in chagrin. He lowered his voice again and leaned in towards Nathan once more. "Man, you are the _man _Mr. Gardner! Angelina Jolie's like, _here?_ In Western Summit?"

"Zane," Nathan intoned solemnly, "you know how it is with film stars researching roles. She was never _here_ and I mean that. I'm not having dinner with An—an actress." He signed the card receipt and picked up the order, heading for the car and vaguely wondering what sort of Monday he was setting himself up for, but not really caring at this point.

There was still the rest of the weekend, and Jones; _that_ was all that mattered.

"You look smug; what's up?" Jones asked curiously, taking the bags from him and immediately digging into one. He could tell when she found the French fries; she fished one out with a little squeak of happiness.

"Word from Zane Talmont is that I'm having dinner with Angelina Jolie," Nathan replied, pulling the car out of the lot. "All because I got flowers from her and now have two steaks in my order."

"Ahhh," Jones nodded. "Well hell, I'm no competition for a star of _that_ ilk."

"And here I was hoping you'd fight her to the death for me," Nathan mock grumbled. "Or at least maim her a little."

"Oh believe me, I can deliver the righteous smackdown when the time comes," Jones assured him. "But I'd rather just sex you up so much that you're too comatose to do it with that puffy-lipped humanitarian."

Nathan blinked several times at that and shot a sidelong glance at Jones. "You always come up with the _best_ plans," he sighed with bliss.

"Mmmmm." She agreed, delicately munching another fry. "I'm glad you think so. Of course, it helps that we're both really . . ."

"—Off her radar?" Nathan suggested blithely. "And hot for each other?"

"Both of those," Jones nodded. "Want a fry?"

They reached Nathan's place and opted to eat there, carrying the steaks up and setting them properly on plates in the kitchen nook. Jones made it a point to play footsie with Nathan as they ate, and he kept shooting her smoldering looks over his bites of steak.

"Keep this up and we won't even get to the ice cream in the freezer," he told her. "And that could be tragic."

"Pack it up, Nathan dear; we'll have it at _my _place," Jones laughed.

"Sure you don't want to stay here?" he asked, clearing away the dishes.

Jones frowned, glancing out the window at the darkness beyond. "I . . . I can't. Not yet. For one thing, I'm not comfortable without my car, and I don't know how snoopy your neighbors are, Nathan."

He thought about her comments and nodded, appreciating her honesty; they were both new to this, and Nathan realized that caution might be wise for both of them. "Yeah, I can understand. I don't think the neighbors care one way or another; Mrs. Perrosia is quiet, and on the other side the Kernans tend to be caught up in their own family dramas, but I appreciate your discretion."

"Thanks." Jones came over to help with the dishes, and Nathan was tickled to see her take over the chore without even thinking about it. "Tell you what—I'll make you the best breakfast you've ever had in compensation. What do you like in the morning?"

He snuggled up behind her. "Warm buns?"

"You seem to have a very one-track mind," Jones murmured, "Not that I disapprove, but I was thinking something more along the lines of toaster waffles, or cereal. I'm the mistress of Cheerios."

"Mistress of Cheerios? Does that mean you whip them into the bowls? Inquiring minds want to know," Nathan murmured, kissing her shoulder and working his way up along her neck. "Kinky."

"My cooking skills are merely adequate, Gardner, so don't expect Duck ala Orange or anything. I've put my talents to use in other areas." Jones told him, arching back and sighing with pleasure. "Ooh, yes, that's very nice."

"Hmmmm, so it's going to be up to _me _to keep us well-fed," Nathan observed, nuzzling her ear. "This, I can do."

They fed the cat and headed back moments later, after Nathan had rummaged around in the garage for something he wouldn't show Jones. She held back on her curiosity, and when they arrived back at her place, Nathan made an odd demand.

"Just . . . let me set something up, please? I'm pretty sure you'll approve, and I won't do any damaging or foolish, but give me about fifteen minutes and then we can have ice cream, all right?"

Jones gave him a suspicious stare. "You're not going to go through my dirty laundry hamper or anything are you?"

"Not this time," Nathan assured her. "That's for later, when I've lost one of my favorite boxer shorts."

She nodded grudgingly and carried the ice cream to her kitchen, rummaging around in the cupboards for bowls and wondering what Nathan was up to. Jones trusted him—the man was integrity personified so far—but curiosity and a healthy dose of self-interest made her wonder.

_He's not Nick_, Jones argued with herself. _There's more to this than just sex._

Still, she bit her lip and eventually wandered towards the bedroom, making sure she made enough noise to be heard as she stopped outside the bedroom door. "Nathan?"

"Almost done," came the cheery reply. "No peeking!"

"I'm not peeking. I'm wai_ting,"_

"Waiting right outside. That's almost . . ." he sounded slightly strained, "Peeking. Go back and serve up the ice cream, please? I'll be right there."

Reluctantly she did, opening up quart container of Mount Fudgy and pouting as she did so. Nathan came bounding in, and that sight alone made her look up.

Nathan Gardner, bounding. It didn't seem possible.

"Hi. I believe I'm entitled to a bowl of that," he murmured, trying to look demure and not quite succeeding. "Please?"

"I don't know," Jones murmured petulantly. "You're being secretive and that's . . . scary."

His face fell; Jones watched the doubt flood his features and she inwardly kicked herself. Moving quickly she set her bowl down and reached out for him, cupping his face and kissing him gently. "Sorry," she murmured, pulling away. "I'm still learning to accept other people's spontaneity."

Nathan sighed, and hugged her close. "We're both sort . . . learning. Anyway, get your bowl and I'll be happy to show you, okay?"

Taking her free hand, Nathan led her to the bedroom, which was scarily dark. Jones hesitated at the looming doorway, the old fear threatening to rise up, but Nathan reached inside the door and flicked the light.

Instantly, a corona of tiny white Christmas lights went on. They were draped around the top of the bedroom walls, strung from the picture frames and curtains, circling the entire room and bathing it in a soft glow that twinkled everywhere.

Jones gasped, hand flying to her lips at this unexpected sight, and she blinked as she took it in. "Nathan . . . ."

"Did I mention one of _my_ skills was hanging lights?" he whispered.

Jones took his bowl and set it with hers on the dresser, then grabbed Nathan, smothering his face with kisses.

*** *** ***

It was slower this time; Jones was slightly frantic, but Nathan soothed her, kissing her slowly and firmly, calming her frenetic mood down to something far more deliberate between them. There were no giggles or tickles, only the languid intensity building as they stretched out under the sheets and embraced each other.

Jones relaxed.

That was what Nathan had been patiently waiting for, and when he felt her let go of her tension, he tugged her over him, urging her to stretch her smaller frame out on top of his. She did, draping sweetly over his body, cheek pressed to Nathan's chest.

"How," Nathan whispered, "did it start?"

She knew what he was asking, and drew in a breath, letting it out slowly before speaking. "You know my mom died a few years after I was born and my dad raised me."

Nathan made a little murmur of agreement; this much he did know.

"Yeah, well, with no wife, a child and a full-time job, my dad hired housekeepers. We went through a few," Jones replied. "And then we got Mrs. Teaford. I was six, and Mrs. Teaford was our housekeeper until I was nine."

There was something in her voice that said it all, and Nathan tightened his arms around her, feeling a rush of concern. Jones was tense now, although she managed to keep her voice light. "She was . . . strict. There were rules for everything, and she kept dad and me on a schedule. Things got done, the house was neat, but . . . strict."

"What did she do?" Nathan asked, suspecting the answer.

"When I was late, or uncooperative or fussy, or did anything to throw off the schedule, Mrs. Teaford would lock me in the basement. Or the closet," Jones admitted flatly.

"Jesus Christ!" Nathan blurted, furious. "And your dad went _along_ with this?"

"Dad didn't know," Jones shot back defensively. "Mrs. Teaford told me;_ lied _to me that he did, and that he approved of it. I . . . was too scared of her to question it, and when I _did_ have time with my dad, I didn't want to talk about punishment."

"Shit," Nathan growled helplessly. "Shit."

"Yeah. She started with half an hour, but it got longer each time," Jones said, her voice slightly shaky. "She prided herself in never hitting me; that was her big virtue, apparently. But it got to the point that I couldn't sleep in the dark, and when I left the light on, I got punished for wasting energy. I started wetting my bed, and I got punished for being a bad girl and not getting up at night to use the bathroom. Some nights I just slept on the hallway carpet, to be near the streetlight that was outside the window."

"Sweetheart—" Nathan's arms tightened around her, and his voice choked. "Oh _God."_

"Dad caught her," Jones continued. "He blew up and fired her, then he got me help. He was devastated, Nathan—blames himself to this day, and even though I've tried to tell him that it's not his fault; that we _both_ were victims, he still hates himself for the whole . . . phobia thing."

"I . . . can see that," came the grudging reply. "But forgive me if I'm going to hold a little anger. Three _years _of not noticing?"

"Dad was just starting teaching at Georgetown so he was pretty pre-occupied, and Mrs. Teaford was damned cunning," Jones shrugged. "She had me too scared to tell for a hell of a long time, Nathan. Dad and I have both had counseling and we're good. He's a terrific father, and I don't want you thinking for one damned _minute_ that he doesn't care, or that he takes this lightly even now, okay?"

Nathan gave a reluctant sigh and kissed the top of her head. "Okay," he assured her.

Jones turned her head to kiss his chest and looked up into his face, her bushy hair flaring around her shoulders. "So—things got better. I finished school and went to college. Was _almost_ okay with the dark by then, and only needed the smallest of nightlights to get me through, until . . . a . . . prank."

Nathan held his breath, mind racing, and something came back to him. Something from the first day he'd met Jones.

_I was once stuck in an industrial-sized clothes dryer for two hours._

"The dryer," he growled.

In his arms, Jones nodded, and sighed. "The dryer. Stupid, stupid dare, and there I was thinking once I'd proved I could fit in it that my friends would applaud me and we'd all have a few more beers. I guess you're never too old to be an idiot, huh?"

"It came back?" Nathan asked, knowing the answer, but needing to hear her say it.

"Ohyeah. They thought it would be funny to leave me there and turn out the lights. I screamed myself hoarse and by the time the fire department got me out I'd wet myself and had bitten through my lower lip. I ended up dropping out for a semester and a few of my friends got disciplined." Jones managed a smile, small and determined. "But I went back and finished up the degree. Got recruited by the feds and kept in touch with my therapist, so things are on an upswing again. I guess my point is, Nathan, that . . . I'm probably never going to be . . . normal. You need to know that _right_ now, because if you can't deal with it . . ."

"I'm in," came his quick, firm reply. "Oh hell, I'm in. Just as long as you know that _I'm_ getting the better bargain in this. Damn it, Jones—you're smart, and gifted and got a way of living that throws *sparks* in any room you're in. Who the hell _wouldn't_ want a piece of that in their lives? Me, I'm an alcoholic depressive with empty nest issues and a collection of radio-controlled boats I need to take a hammer to."

That made her laugh, just as he'd hoped, and Jones scooted up higher on his body to kiss him, her tongue toying possessively with his. Easily, sweetly they kissed again with more in it this time for all that had been said.

Jones gently, sweetly made love to him, sensually rocking on Nathan, her hands stroking his chest as their bodies merged in the twinkle-lit bedroom. Nathan moved slowly, deliberately drawing out the pleasures, running his hands over her breasts and ribs, caressing everywhere he could touch, never getting his fill of her velvet warm skin. This was all about giving this time, and yet he felt in awe of everything he kept receiving.

Finally though, Jones was gasping, her nipples tight and hot under his thumbs, and Nathan felt himself swell hard and fast in response to her pleasure. She shuddered, and the sweet contractions around his aching shaft brought him to hot, glorious climax deep inside Jones as she groaned.

He pulled her across his chest again, and they both slept heavily.


	11. Chapter 11

Jones had never had a Sunday quite like it. She woke to breakfast in bed; Nathan had found her stash of bagels, and brought them up along with cream cheese, coffee and jam. By the time they were done, the sheets needed to be washed to get all sorts of stains out, and they shared a very cozy shower together, cleaning off the last of the apricot preserves.

She sketched in good light from the windows, while Nathan read the paper across from her, his bare feet propped up, those tantalizing reading glasses sliding down his nose. Jones managed good outlines of his hands and a nice preliminary of a still life with coffee cup, newspaper and spectacles before setting the pad down and flexing her hands.

"Where are you going next week?" she asked. Nathan peeked over the book review section at her, slightly confused.

"I'm going somewhere?"

"Thanksgiving," Jones reminded him. "Most people go _some_where. I'm off to Dad's in Virginia. How about you?"

Nathan frowned. "My sister's place in Romont. Susan and I have a standing invitation since neither one of us is good at doing turkey on our own."

"Me either," Jones admitted. "Dad's girlfriend Honey does all the cooking for us, although I'm encouraged to bring dip and chips."

"How long . . . will you be gone?" he tried to sound nonchalant, but Jones grinned at the slightly wistful tone of his voice.

"Well . . . I'll probably be back by Sunday afternoon," Jones told him. "I'll bring you some dip."

"I bring you back some—what do you want?" Nathan asked curiously. "Seriously—what do you like?"

She came over and draped on him for a moment, nuzzling his neck. "Green beans."

"Green beans?" he slid an arm around her, pulling her close. "I *knew* there was something strange about you, Jones."

"It's always the quiet ones," she agreed.

Lunch consisted of cheese, fruit, bread and footsie; Nathan enjoyed all of it, and lingered, not wanting to leave and yet aware that he must. "I should be home to greet the future freshwoman when she returns," he told Jones regretfully as she helped him bring his backpack to the foyer.

"I know, I know," she sighed, pressing her forehead to his. "But I'll miss you."

"Me too," Nathan admitted. "Any chance of a quickie between here and the car?"

Jones laughed. "I wouldn't rule it out."

"Now you're making it _very _hard to leave."

"I can handle the very _hard _part," she teased, one hand tugging down his fly as they leaned against the inside of the front door. "And we haven't had dessert yet . . ."

Nathan groaned and reached for Jones, but she pushed him back against the door and dropped to her knees, giggling.

*** *** ***

Nathan looked up lazily from the book he was _almost _reading and gave Suze a smile as she and Charlie came in, lugging backpacks and a single suitcase between them. "Hey Suzie-Q. How did your fact-finding mission go? Charlie--" he acknowledged with a wave.

"Good . . ." she murmured, looking at her father suspiciously. Coming over to the recliner, she kissed his forehead and looked down at him. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," he protested mildly. "Why shouldn't I be?"

"Be-cause it's after dark and I'm about an hour later than I thought I would be?" Suze offered carefully. 'You usually get twitchy about that sort of thing."

"I thought you _wanted_ more autonomy," Nathan dodged, rising up and stretching a little. "You two had dinner yet?"

"Yes, sir," Charlie murmured. "But thanks."

"I _do_ want more," Suze agreed, "But I'm not totally prepared for reasonableness on your part just yet."

"Is this a teenage thing?" Nathan asked mildly.

"I think it's a feminine thing," Charlie ventured, and Susan shot him a lofty look.

"I'm going to feed Achilles," she announced, and stepped into the kitchen.

"Achilles?" Charlie asked, and Nathan rolled his eyes.

"I named him that, because he's a heel."

Apparently the scent of tuna carried, however, and when Nathan opened the sliding glass door, the lean feline slunk in quickly, moving like a shadow towards the kitchen. Charlie watched him then turned to Nathan, offering up a soft smile. "I think you own a cat now."

"Things could be worse," Nathan admitted. "He could be a Great Dane."

"Dad?" came Suze's voice from the kitchen. Charlie and Nathan went to find her staring at the empty dishwasher. "Didn't you eat _anything_ this weekend?"

"I went out. A lot," he defended himself, trying not to over-react. Suze broke into a lopsided grin and nodded.

"Sure. Anyway, Charlie, did you want to show Dad some of those apartments we found?"

The next hour was spent looking at and discussing living arrangements, with Nathan listening with a wry expression. Charlie and Suze had debated the pros and cons of living together, and had come to the incredibly mature decision not to, to Nathan's surprise.

"First of all, we have completely conflicting schedules," Suze pointed out. "And I am SO not a morning person."

"Really?" Nathan teased. "just because it takes caffeine, nicotine and sugar to get you moving by nine every day?"

"Dad—!"

"There's more to it," Charlie quietly pointed out. "Susan and I know the first year is definitely going to be the most difficult on us and our relationship. If we can handle living close enough to see each other regularly but maintain our own comfort zones, we'll be in a better position to cope with stress and the need to withdraw occasionally."

"No two bedroom apartments available, huh?" Nathan murmured knowingly.

Charlie blushed, but Suze rolled her eyes. "Actually, there were a few, but in all seriousness, we're really not ready for that kind of commitment."

"I'm . . . impressed. That's a mature and reasonable outlook," Nathan replied quietly. "So what's the catch?"

"There is no 'catch,'" Suze told him firmly. "Being in a relationship doesn't mean you have to be together twenty-four seven, you know."

"Fair enough," Nathan conceded. "And the two months down payment is generally cheaper for a one bedroom than a two."

"Daaaaaaad," Suze grumbled, but she gave a twisted smile. "So what did _you _do this weekend?"

Nathan blinked, caught slightly off-guard by this turnabout. He felt himself blush slightly. "Oh this and that."

"Un-hunh," she replied with a knowing nod, and Nathan held her stare, striving for his blandest expression.

"I suggest you wear a tie on Monday, sir," Charlie murmured. When Nathan shifted his gaze to the boy, he added, "To cover the, um . . ." he gestured towards Nathan's neck.

"Hickey," Suze filled in sweetly, "along your collarbone, dad."

Nathan froze, and it was too much for Suze, who burst into giggles. Charlie fought against joining her, but eventually gave way and even Nathan finally laughed a little himself, one hand rubbing his neck self-consciously.

"It could be a bruise," he muttered.

"Nnnnnnnno," Suze replied authoritatively. "And I really don't want everyone at Western Summit asking me if Angelina Jolie jumped your bones."

"Too late," Nathan sighed. "Zane Talmont probably has already spilled the beans on my imaginary clandestine rendezvous."

"Knowing Zane, the story will take on momentous proportions, too," Charlie commiserated. "Possibly even expanding into a ménage a trois with Brad. Which _could_ significantly increase your hipness factor among the student body."

Nathan looked incredulous. "No. I'm not about to encourage anyone believing I'm some sort of bisexual swinger. Not even for Angelina Jolie."

"True sir, but then again, it may all blow over just as easily. I think more of the students are following the Cortese/Henderson relationship these days."

"Following it?"

"Betting," Suze sighed. "Travis Bivins is keeping book on whether they'll be breaking up before Christmas or after. The cooking classes are throwing the odds for a loop, but long-time watchers are factoring it in."

"Dear God," Nathan muttered, "You mean, the kids . . . know?"

"Dad, it's like, legendary," Susan snorted. "Part of the school culture. Don't sweat it, okay?"

"Only a small percentage of the student body is actively watching their day-to-day interactions," Charlie earnestly reported. "Most are content with just getting the weekly updates via Twitter."

"Updates?" Nathan felt slightly sick to his stomach.

"Yeah. That's the _TrueLove? _update. And there's betting pool on what color tie Mr. Sedgwick is going to wear, and the Pop quiz alert, and _Guess the Cafeteria Mystery Meat_," Charlie rambled. "I know it may seem slightly unethical, but most of this is _strictly_ limited to Western Summit and you can't get access without your school ID code."

"Why am I not surprised?" Nathan looked from his daughter to Charlie and back again. "Is there . . ."

"Nothing about you except on the Pop Quiz alert," Charlie assured him. "Although when you were principal, we did have a Bullhorn alert too."

"Marvelous. And who _runs_ this site?" even as he asked, Nathan caught the slightly guilty look on Charlie's face.

"Uhm, by domain, it's Bivins, but there are . . . contributors," Charlie admitted, "and an editorial staff."

"And I'm looking at two of them now, am I?" Nathan grumbled. "So help me, Susan Elaine Gardner, if one word of my personal life shows up anywhere, I'm going to strenuously apply my parental authority to the fullest extent of the law."

"Dad," Suze pointed out with quiet honesty, "I can _try._ But whether or not the students pick up on anything is up to you and her."

Nathan paused, taking her words in, and slowly nodded. "Okay, point made, but still—" He waved a finger in Charlie's direction as well, "—I'm watching. Always watching."

This did not induce the fear he'd hoped; Susan laughed aloud, and even Charlie smirked a bit, so Nathan decided a dignified retreat was his best option, and he went to roll the garbage cans out to the curb.

*** *** ***

It was difficult to keep herself from beaming, Jones thought. She managed to get to school early and go through the normal routine of setting up class and checking over lesson plans, but when she heard familiar steps coming down the hall it took everything in her not to run to the door of her class and peek.

She looked over as Nathan stood there, staring into her classroom, briefcase in hand, solemn expression on his face and for a moment she panicked, thinking he looked as if he didn't even recognize her.

"Miss Jones," he intoned formally. "Do you have a moment to discuss the mural before classes start?"

"Um, yes?" she managed, still feeling a sense of alarm. Nathan checked his watch, gave a nod, and turned into his classroom; Jones took a deep breath and stepped across the hall, glad that nobody else was down at this end of the building just yet.

"Natha—"

Jones didn't get a chance to finish his name; as she stepped into his classroom he was just to the side of the door and grabbed her, pulling her into his arms with surprising strength. "Good morning. I brushed my teeth—wanna check?"

"Oh*yeah!*" she burbled and kissed him, hard and deep. Nathan smelled wonderful and tasted even better; Jones settled into his arms with a happy little moan.

"You," he panted, "Are better than coffee. Or a bagel, for that matter. Missed you this morning."

"I saw you," Jones protested between kisses, "*Yesterday!*"

"A lifetime to a Mayfly."

"You're a man," she reminded him, adding as she pressed up against him firmly, "Oooh, a very_ happy_ man!"

"Yes, I'm going to have to let go of you now," Nathan grumbled. "Before that gets more obvious. Still---good morning!"

Jones giggled. "When I saw you in the hall; let's just say your poker face is hell on the ego."

"We're potentially under the microscope," Nathan murmured, nuzzling her ear. He proceeded to fill her in about the underground web activities, and Jones alternately laughed and gasped.

"We could get it shut down," she pointed out, still snuggled into his arms. "I know some people—"

"You're forgetting my track record--I don't really do authority well," Nathan reminded her. "For the moment, I say we stay low and see what happens. By the way, thanks for the hickie. I have to wear a tie because of you."

"It's your neck," she sighed, moving to kiss Nathan under his jaw line. "It tempts me, darling, and I must hearken to it."

"I really, _really _need to let you go now," Nathan whined. "Damn it. Listen, can we get away for lunch?"

"I thought we were under a microscope?"

"It's Monday," Nathan pointed out. "By Wednesday we'll be separated for four entire days of the Thanksgiving weekend, and I realize now that I have needs. Urgent needs."

"Yeah," Jones nodded, breathlessly. "Metoo. But afterschool. We can, um, conference together at my place."

"Conference," Nathan agreed as they both heard the sound of students starting to arrive. "Fantastic euphemism. Con-fer-ence. Deep and meaningful conferencing."

"You're incorrigible," Jones pointed out, and kissed him hard, one last time before deftly ducking out of his embrace and skittering to the door. She turned back and called loudly, "I'm not sure I can find a good three quarters portrait of Alexander Hamilton, but I'll try."

Nathan barely had time to wipe her lip gloss off his mouth before the first student strolled in the door.


	12. Chapter 12

Monday proved to be a bust, as did Tuesday; by Wednesday Nathan was ready to growl, and did a bit at his students. Sedgwick had decided to pile on the committee meetings prior to the holiday, and between those, Susan's work schedule, Jones' various appointments and the weather, the 'conferencing' had been unavoidably delayed. The only blessing was the Friday was a minimum day, and that most of the students were as eager to leave campus as their teachers. As they scattered at the last bell, streaming out and away Nathan lost no time in walking purposefully across the hall and looking around for Jones.

She wasn't there. Disappointed, Nathan checked the entire room, and although it was full of art projects, tables, paints and space, it lacked an Art teacher. He moved to the little door behind the teacher's podium, wondering if Jones was in her supply room.

She was.

Topless, Jones had her hands barely covering her breasts, and her sultry smile was enough to send an electrifying jolt of energy straight to his groin. "Hi," she breathed. "Close the door?"

Nathan did with a hard slam, pressing his back to it to prevent anyone from even thinking about opening it. "Hi. You're naked."

"Very nearly," she replied, sauntering closer and letting her hands slide down enough to reveal the top of her nipples. "Want to be friends?"

"More than friends," he blurted, reaching out to pull her into his arms.

They didn't speak much after that; grunts and groans were communication enough, and Nathan learned that trying to kiss, grope, strip and spout romantic words was a definite challenge to his multitasking abilities. Thankfully Jones was more coordinated and managed to get his pants down around his knees without too much trouble.

"Want you," she breathed against his neck. "You have no idea what those damned glasses of yours do to me!"

"I'm cluing in now," he chuffed, as the self-same glasses steamed up a bit. Nathan managed to plunk down on an ancient, wobbly stool and pull Jones into his lap as he scooted them both back against the door. She braced her hands on it, which brought her chest into his face.

Nathan was _not _about to complain.

"I'm hot for your professor look . . . . ooohhhhh . . . ." Jones moaned as he demonstrated precisely why they were called nipples. Nathan took time to gleefully, wetly, kiss her cleavage before pushing her jeans off.

"For _you,_ I'd get the pipe and tweed jacket too . . . oh yeah, oh yeahjustlike that----!" came Nathan's heartfelt groan as Jones straddled him and began to bounce. The instability of the stool under them both added an extra thrill, and Nathan gripped the sweet, taut globes of Jones' ass, feeling the relentless tension build up, stroke by stroke. He let go and brought a hand between their bodies, forcing himself to be gentle as he stroked the hard little bud between her thighs, and moments later Jones tensed, her wild blonde hair flailing as she muffled her cry against his shirt-covered shoulder.

That was about all it took; Nathan grunted as his own orgasm flared through him, hot and insanely good in the best of animalistic ways. Gripping her hips hard, he felt himself gush within Jones, and heard the clatter of his glasses as they fell to the linoleum floor at their feet.

Jones slumped on him, still bracing one hand against the door. She laughed very softly and gave him a tender kiss that Nathan returned just as sweetly.

"You are one hell of a sexy guy, Nathan Gardner," Jones informed him breathlessly. "Did you know that?"

"You must have me mistaken for someone else. I'm one hell of a *lucky* guy," Nathan murmured, head back against the door, eyes still slightly crossed. "See, this erotic goddess took a teaching job across the hall from me and seduced me into being her slobbering love slave."

Jones giggled. "Funny, in my case it was this smoldering stud with the degrees in history who works across the hall from _me_."

"High schools; they're a known hotbed of dangerous liaisons," Nathan agreed. "Damn it I'm going to miss you this week. Maybe I can fake a collapsed lung or something and sneak home early."

"Now, now," Jones chided sweetly, pulling herself up and reaching for some of the paper towels on a nearby shelf. "We've both got obligations, lover. I'm going to miss you too, but I'll never hear the end of it if I don't show up at my dad's for the turkey."

"I know," Nathan replied glumly, fishing for his glasses and putting them on again. "But after a ten-year drought of intimate relations, I can't help but be a tad greedy. Still, I can call you, right?"

"You'd _better," _Jones chided, bending to kiss him firmly. "I'm counting on it. And for the record? This was fun," she laughed, waving around the storage room. "Next time, let's try yours."

Nathan laughed with her. "Deal!"

*** *** ***

Jones sighed. Her dad shot her a patient look upwards, his expression pleased but patient, and she didn't ask him *how* he knew. They were sitting on the back porch, which overlooked the Chesapeake Bay in a lovely view even if it was a bit cold.

"He's one of the teachers," Jones admitted.

"Again with a co-worker," her father shook his head slowly, but Jones didn't rise to the bait and kept sipping her wine. "Is he an arrogant asshole?"

"No. I checked very carefully about that," Jones murmured, and her dad laughed.

"Thank God," came the reply. "So Nick's totally out of the picture now?"

"You know it, I know it, the American people know it, but I'm not sure _Nick _knows it."

"Ah," her father commiserated. "Yes, Nick's vision is pretty much limited to what he _wants _to see. Does your new gentleman know about the _old _gentleman?"

"Dad, stop grilling. I'm not on the witness stand and I'm not in your lecture hall," Jones sighed. "You want details, just ask."

Her father gave a sigh and set his glass down. "That takes all the fun out of it."

"For _you_ maybe," Jones shot back. She turned to look at her father with a wry grin. "Nathan Gardner, Masters in American History from Penn. Psychotic ex-wife, and I'm not using that term in a descriptive sense either. She's mentally ill. Seventeen year old daughter who's interested in pre-law, by the way."

"_Her,_ I like," her dad nodded, "Is there a restraining order on the wife?"

Jones shook her head. "He hasn't needed one so far."

Her dad looked up at her, his eyes kind but sharp. "Sweetheart, when she gets wind of you in his life, there may be trouble. I'm not saying that to scare you, but mentally ill people play by a different set of rules, and I don't want you to be in the middle of something nasty, you know?"

Jones shivered and pretended it was because of the cold. "Thanks. I'll keep it in mind and pass that onto Nathan. Anything else you need to know?"

"How does he feel about _not_ having kids?" he asked after a long, quiet moment, his expression slightly sad.

Jones leaned over and gave her father a hug. After a moment, they both heard the timer go off in the kitchen, and Honey calling them to come inside for dinner.

Afterwards she and her father got out the Parcheesi set. Jones and Honey played a few games while her father did the dishes, and when he came out he joined them and proceeded to trounce both of them thoroughly.

Jones was just putting the board away when her cell phone rang. Recognizing the number, she smiled and wandered back out to the porch for some privacy. "Hel-lo Mr. Gardner."

"Happy Thanksgiving, Miss Jones. Pleasantries aside now, I miss you."

"I understand," she empathized, settling down onto one of the sofas. "Seeing how it's been nearly twelve whole hours since we've seen each other."

"Missing isn't quantifiable by time," Nathan argued sweetly. "It's an emotional state in flux with hormones and a personal sense of imbalance."

"All right," Jones agreed with amusement in her voice. "I miss you as well. Have you eaten yet?"

"Actually, no—we're due for the family Stuff-a-thon in about half an hour," Nathan admitted. "I've slunk away out here to the laundry room for this romantic interlude."

"Romantic, hmmm? I guess I should help out by saying when we first met, I lied. You _are _fantasy material, sweetheart," Jones crooned to him. "In your tight-assed, buttoned-up, 'come seduce me' style."

"Damn it," he hissed back, humor and frustration in his voice, "Now I know you really _are_ too far away!"

"When I first looked into those big chocolate eyes of yours with those long lashes, I wanted to see you on my sheets, hot and naked."

There was a pause over the connection, and Jones belatedly wondered if she'd shocked Nathan, or worse, offended him with her tease. Then she heard his slightly ragged exhalation, followed by a tiny moan.

"Great—now I have a crowbar in my pants."

Jones laughed so hard she dropped her phone and had to dig for it among the cushions. Still giggling, she put it to her ear once again. "N-Nathan?"

"That's what you _really _wanted when you first saw me?" he asked, lust tinged with doubt in his voice.

"Yes," Jones admitted. "It really was. Instant attraction, sweetheart. You looked like . . ." she paused, not sure if she could continue, but he spoke up.

"Like what? You can say it, whatever it is."

"Like you . . . . _needed _me," Jones finished quietly. "Like a man with so much to give, and no-one to give it to. And I don't just mean sex, you know. There was a whole _lot _in your eyes that had me hot and bothered."

Another long silence filled the connection, and Jones squirmed, feeling anxious when it drew out. Then she heard Nathan give a long, low sigh.

"I'm . . . floored," he admitted huskily. "Damn it, Jones, I don't know what to say to that, except thank God you were there."

"So you _do _need me?" she teased, very, very gently.

"I _love_ you," Nathan returned, his voice husky. "I wanted to wait to say that until I could look you in the face to say it, but this is too important right now. I love you, Jones."

Jones blinked rapidly, but the tears were too quick and the joy behind them too strong. She gave one little sobbing sniff. "You . . ."

"Yes," Nathan assured her firmly, his voice thick and slow and soft. "I love you. I'm not sure exactly when it hit me, but it's been incrementally moving up inside. Too much right now?"

"It's pretty big," Jones assured him, "but considering that I love you too, I think that's all right."

"Y-you do?" a world of stunned surprise and joy echoed in her ear and Jones nodded, even though Nathan couldn't see her.

She laughed, joyously. "We're a hell of a pair, aren't we? Damn it, Nathan, making the ultimate romantic connection over cell phones because we're too far apart to cuddle!"

"When we get back," came his low and determined reply, "just wait, just hang on until we both get back, and any vestige of doubt you may still harbor will be incinerated away."

"Yes," Jones agreed, half laughing, half crying. "Oh yes. Is it possible we're both going through a second adolescence?"

"In my case, a certainty," Nathan admitted. "Although I'll pass on the acne this time. Hold on—" She hear some indistinct voices in the background and then Nathan's sigh. "Gotta go; it's turkey time here. Justinia I love you--"

"Love you too, Nathan," she managed and then the connection clicked off. Jones stared at the phone in her hand, feeling the idiotic urge to dance around the porch, and knew that she was grinning despite wet eyes.

*** *** ***

They were just getting to dessert when Betsy asked the question, and this time Nathan hesitated. He could feel Suze's eyes, bright and mischievous as she sat across the table waiting for his answer.

"Yes, actually, I . . ._ am _seeing someone," he admitted. His sister, who was in the middle of transferring a slice of pumpkin pie to a plate, dropped it in her surprise.

"Really?" she squeaked. Her husband looked to the ceiling in patient frustration.

"Bets, can you just serve up the dessert and ask the questions later?"

His wife shot him a dry and patient look. "Pie can wait, Mike Malone; this is major news. So—who is she, and when do we get to meet her?"

On the spot, Nathan squirmed a little, but took a breath. "She's one of my colleagues at Western Summit, actually."

"That could be tricky," Mike murmured, still eyeing the pie in front of his wife. "Workplace romances can backfire you know. One of my deputies ended up with a snoot-full of mace after arguing with his on-site paramour. A little more Cool Whip, please."

"She doesn't carry Mace," Nathan assured his brother-in-law.

"Frisked her thoroughly, did you?" came the quick grin in reply. At the other end of the table, Betsy cleared her throat warningly, but she was grinning herself as she plopped more whipped cream on the slice of pie and passed it to her husband.

"She's the art teacher," Suze volunteered.

"Art teacher?" came the dubious question from her thirteen year old cousin Seth. "I thought Art teachers were all, you know . . . artsy New Age and weirded out and stuff."

"Seth!" his mother chided, and looked at Nathan. "Is she?"

"Yes," Nathan lied, tongue firmly in cheek. "She's teaching me nude Yoga, and we've been barbequing nuts and berries for our dinners together."

"What?" his sister yelped while Suze snickered and Mike looked up suspiciously from his pie.

Only Seth looked pleased. "_All right!"_ he chortled. "Is she bodaciously hot with a lot of tattoos and piercings?"

"Seth Malone, you are _excused _from the table young man!" Betsy commanded. "What a thing to ask!"

Sulkily the boy left, carrying his pie out; when he'd cleared the room, Mike looked back at Nathan. "So—you didn't answer his question." When his wife glared at him, he held her gaze impishly. "Hey, inquiring minds want to know."

Nathan shook his head. "No piercings. She used to work for the CIA."

His sister relaxed. "Okay then; Feds are normal. Sort of."

"She was a spook?" This came for Suze, and Nathan realized she was surprised. It belatedly dawned on him that he hadn't had much of a chance to talk to his daughter about Jones.

"Not really—she was an instructor. Very boring, she assures me. Thank you," Nathan accepted a slice of pie.

"And does she have a _name?"_ his sister asked, passing Suze a plate.

Nathan paused. "She's . . . Just Jones."

"You call her by her last name?" Betsy asked, confused. "Doesn't sound very romantic to me."

"Eh, she's a former spook—I bet she's got a code name," Mike offered. "Something like Matisse One."

Suze was openly giggling now, and managed to splutter, "You guys are weird, seriously."

"Her first name is Justinia," Nathan finally admitted, "although she prefers to go by Jones, and I don't really blame her."

"Justinia?" Betsy questioned. "Gracious, I'd go by Jones too then. More importantly though, Nate—does she make you happy?"

"Yeah." This came from Suze, before Nathan could answer, and he felt himself blush at the show of support. "Dad's pretty, um, smitten."

"Smitten? Smitten?" Mike grinned. "Oh-ho, we are above simple terms like 'attracted to' or 'intimate' if we're all the way up to 'smitten.'"

"Mike, knock it off," Betsy defended her brother. "Nate really deserves a shot at being happy, especially after . . ." she trailed off uncomfortably, and no one spoke for a moment as the memory of Donna pervaded the room.

Nathan cleared his throat. "It's okay, and while 'smitten' is a bit smug, I can't really deny it fits. Good pie, sis."

"Thanks," Betsy murmured, glad for the shift in conversation. "So, will we be seeing you at Christmas this year?"

"That depends on Suze," Nathan murmured, rolling his eyes towards her, "and if _her _significant other is going to invite her up to his place for the day."

"Dad," Suze shot back warningly, but her mouth was drawn up in a smile. "Charlie and I haven't talked about it yet."

"I'll just put you guys down for a 'maybe' then," Betsy muttered. "No hard feelings either way."

"Safe bet," Mike nodded, finishing up his pie. The blip of his pager cut into the pause of the conversation, and with a sigh he rose, "Sorry babe, duty calls. I'll check in when I can."

Betsy accepted his quick kiss as he passed by her and out the door, his boots heavy on the wooden floorboards. She turned her attention back to Nathan and sighed. "I hate it when he gets called in during the holidays. Thank God *you* have regular hours and aren't at the whim of the drunks and criminals."

"Not since I quit school administration," Nathan agreed solemnly, and his sister blew a raspberry at him.


	13. Chapter 13

By Sunday, Nathan and Suze were on the road by late afternoon, heading back to Western Summit along with seemingly every other commuter in the state. Nathan drove, letting his daughter bounce along in the passenger seat, her earbuds in and her iPod on, but after a while she gave it up and looked at him while she coiled the cords.

"Dad?"

"Yeah?"

"Just how serious are you and Miss Jones?" she asked, and in her tone Nathan heard more than just a surface question. He hesitated.

He and Susan had never lied to each other. Early on, when Donna first began to unravel, the two of them had made a promise that no matter what happened, they'd never lie to each other, and although that hadn't solved every problem between them, it was one pledge they'd managed to keep. The usual disagreements happened, and there had been a few moments when he was drinking that Nathan regretted deeply, but on the whole this particular promise was still sacred.

Sighing, Nathan admitted, "It's getting serious, Suze-Q. She's starting to mean a lot to me."

"Oh," came the soft murmur. He didn't take his eyes off the road, but groped with his right hand for hers. Finding it, Nathan squeezed Suze's fingers.

"When you first started falling for Charlie . . . did you wonder how_ I_ was going to feel about it?"

That startled her, and Suze turned to stare at him. Nathan kept his grip on hers soft, and gradually her fingers curled around his. "I didn't think about it. I mean, not right away. Charlie was so different, and I was doing my own thing with drama, and then he was sort of moving and shaking things on campus, but underneath was all sweet and shy and by the time I thought about _you_ he and I . . . okay," she snorted, "I get it. You're making a point here, aren't you?"

"Yep," Nathan agreed. "When something like a Charlie or a Jones comes along, we don't really get too much of a chance to _think_ about it. We sort of get pulled into the phenomenon they are."

Suze gave a knowing smile. "Phenomenon. Yep, that's a pretty accurate word for Charlie."

Nathan gave a grunt, half in agreement, half in resignation. They drove on for a little while in silence, and then Suze spoke up again.

"So do you . . . love . . . her?"

Nathan gripped the wheel more tightly. "Yes."

The silence filled the car again, heavy and serious. Finally Suze gave a little shake of her head, drawing in a deep breath through her nose.

"Okay. Okay. But--if she breaks your heart, I'm going after her, dad."

Nathan swallowed, knowing that under the jest of the remark, there was a core of honesty to his daughter's words. He was humbled, amused, and a little frightened on Jones' behalf.

"That's my girl," Nathan murmured. "Take no prisoners."

They reached home a little after five, and Susan immediately took off for Ellen's, trotting out across the back yard and slipping through the gate, giving Nathan a careless wave along with assurances that she would be back before ten. Nathan watched her go, feeling the damned cat rub up against his ankles.

He pulled out his cell phone and dialed.

"Hi! Where are you?" Jones answered brightly, sounding breathlessly sexy. Nathan fought an urge to purr; just hearing her did very nice things to his well-being.

"I am back home, alone, with a casserole serving of green beans," Nathan told her in a solemn voice. "Does that sound tempting?"

"Oh yes," came her happy sigh, "Very. But . . ."

Nathan tensed. "Something wrong?"

"No! Well, not really . . ." Jones sighed. "It's just that . . . um, my . . . my period started."

Nathan blinked. "Oh. Okay. Are you hurting? Need a nap?"

"I could probably use one," Jones told him honestly. "The Pill tends to keep me from too much cramping, but I do get a little tired. I'm sorry to disappoint you, babe."

"I'm not disappointed," Nathan countered manfully. "This is natural. This is part of a relationship. I cut Suze slack when she needs it during this time of the month."

Jones gave a soft laugh. "Oh that's right, you're familiar with all this. Not all appalled and grossed out?"

"Nope," Nathan murmured sincerely. "I have a sister, I had a wife, I have a daughter; I'm as acclimated as my gender gets. You go rest, okay?"

"Actually, I was hoping you'd come nap _with _me," Jones whispered. "And bring the green beans with you."

"Oh so _that's_ how it is."

"Yep. I need my two best comforts right away."

"Let me leave a note for the girlchild, and I'll be there," Nathan promised, grinning.

Jones was in heaven. Well, as close to heaven as matters got on a Sunday afternoon. She lay warmly snuggled against Nathan's side, head resting on his shoulder as he held her in the crook of one arm. They were in her bedroom, in a state of semi-clothing and feeling very cuddly; Nathan had finished telling her about his Thanksgiving between soft kisses to her forehead and temple.

"Just to spite Bets and make Seth nuts, you ought to meet them with, say, purple hair in a Mohawk," he teased, "and a black leather mini-skirt. And spiky high heels. Mmmmmm, high heels."

"Are you _sure_ this is for them and not for _you?"_

"Well, I'd have to supervise of course. Make sure you're properly anarchist and anti-social. Just help yourself to some of the stuff in the back of Suze's closet and you'll be set, although I think my reaction to you in some of that gear versus my reaction to Suze in it---" Nathan gave a little growl that made her giggle.

"You have naughty fantasies," Jones accused, running a hand along his bare chest.

"Unfortunately, yes," Nathan confessed. "I plead a decade of celibacy and too much access to the Internet."

She laughed again, a lazy sound as she slid her leg along his. "Sounds normal enough to me—the fantasy part anyway. And we_ all_ have them, so it's okay. I should let you check out my closet; I've got a pair of Astrabellas that might give you a thrill."

"Oh really?" He murmured, his voice light and amused. "Do tell."

"Heh, if you're a good boy I'll _model_ them for you," Jones replied, lifting her face up for a soft kiss that he delivered very well.

"I'm going to keep you to that promise, you know. I have a phenomenal memory for what's owed me."

"Of that, I have no doubt," Jones agreed. "Do you want to sleep, or fool around?"

"There's a choice?" Nathan shot back, surprised. Jones answered by pressing her palm against his fly and rubbing; the action made him throb. "Ohhhh . . ."

"Heh," Jones snickered, moving her fingers to unzip him. "Do you mind?"

"Mmmmm, I don't mind at all," Nathan assured her, his voice low. "Although some um, parameters would be nice."

"How about you lie back and be my lord and master this time, and you can return the favor down the road?"

The heartfelt groan that rose from Nathan matched the throb of his erection against her fingers, and Jones savored the sound. She lightly caressed him again, feeling pleased at his quick and urgent response to her touch. Nathan slid a hand along hers, his breathing deep. "You're serious?"

"Baby, I would _love _to make you happy," she told him. "I'm completely serious. And you can always reciprocate another time, capice?"

In reply, Nathan pulled her half over him and kissed her thoroughly once more, his lips, his whisper rough. "Honey, I don't know if I _can_ just . . . receive. I mean, I _want_ you to do me; believe me, yes oh hell yeah, but just . . ."

Jones took a breath, and lightly kissed him, her voice slow. "You know one of the things I think is so damned sexy about you?"

This floored him for a moment, and as he struggled to find a reply, Jones continued, her fingers still caressing him as she spoke. "It's your air of authority, Nathan. Oh I love so much about you, but there's that stern Mr. Gardner in you that makes me all weak in the knees sometimes. That no-nonsense disciplinarian who knows just how to make girls like me behave. Or in this case, not behave."

She felt Nathan breathe faster, felt his shaft stiffen at her words, and sensing the response, Jones continued in a gentle voice. "You're not bossy, but it's clear you're in charge, and that means in the bedroom too, Mr. Gardner. If you bring a girl in here you have expectations that need to be met, and I can't _wait_ to be told what to do . . . sir."

In the quiet heartbeat that passed, Jones wondered if she'd overdone it, and she waited, fighting the tension low in her belly. Then Nathan reached over and cupped the side of her face, tipping her head to look into her eyes, his own dark and mysterious.

"I think," he told her in his stern tone, "You are a very impertinent and naughty girl."

Jones shivered happily, squirming against him and feeling precisely that. "Yes?"

"Very much so," Nathan informed her. "The sort of girl who has a reputation."

That made her giggle a bit, but Jones stifled the sound quickly as Nathan kept his unsmiling expression, and she tried to look contrite. "I'm a good girl," she murmured in protest.

"That remains to be seen," Nathan replied. "How well do you follow directions, Miss Jones? Exactly?"

She let her fingers slip into his undone fly. "I can be a good girl if you tell me how . . ." she purred, and in that moment, Nathan's cell phone rang.

The jangling tone broke the mood; Jones sighed good-naturedly and waved for him to answer it as Nathan squeezed his eyes shut in extreme frustration and fumbled on the nightstand for the phone.

"Crap," he growled after checking the number. "Double crap."

Jones carefully zipped him up and shot a curious look at him while Nathan grunted into the phone. "Donna."

She froze, but he slid his free hand around her shoulders and squeezed, making it clear he wanted her there, so reluctantly she snuggled against him, feeling him speak. His body was tense now, and not with the passion of a moment before. Jones tried to keep still.

"No. Absolutely not. You _know_ why not," he muttered into the mouthpiece. "She doesn't want to be with you, and I and the judge agree."

Jones tensed herself, intuitively filling in the other half of the conversation. She rested a protective hand on Nathan's chest, and was rewarded with a quick and grateful smile from him. There was a shrill sound from the earpiece, and although she couldn't make out the words, Jones had no trouble recognizing the tone.

"I don't know if she's blocking your calls, but I can't _make_ her talk to you, Donna. No, I'm her father, not her parole officer. No, none of your damned business."

He was getting more tense with each passing moment, and Jones felt awkward, caught between wanting to give him privacy and staying close enough to support him.

She raised her head and Nathan shot her a look of naked pleading. Nodding, Jones snuggled closer.

"I'm hanging up now. No. Send it by Email. No. I'm done. No."

Fiercely he snapped the cell phone shut mid-squawk and threw it across the room, letting it tumble onto the carpet at the doorway.

Neither of them spoke for a moment, and the ashes of their previous mood drifted in the room. Finally Nathan gave a low groan, and pulled Jones closer into his arms, his face pressed against her shoulder. "Shit, I am so sorry."

"It's all right," Jones told him, not certain that it was, but feeling a need to say so. In the course of a few minutes he'd gone from her confident and seductive lover to a tense, angry block in her arms. Lightly, Jones stroked his hair and brushed her lips against his temple. "Can you tell me what's wrong?"

"Same issues, round three hundred," came his muffled reply against her skin. "She's got it in her head that since she's closer to the college of choice that Suze ought to come live with _her_ for the last half of this year, which is by all definitions bullshit."

Jones snorted. "So uprooting Susan from the only stability she's got and putting her on an emotional rollercoaster for six months right before going to college is a good idea? Dear God, I'd hate to hear your ex-wife's version of a _bad_ idea."

Nathan laughed, and the vibrations against her skin tickled, so she did too. He wiped his face on her skin and then looked up at Jones, rubbing his nose against hers. "Did I mention lately that I love you?"

"I was getting the impression," Jones murmured back comfortingly. "Want to just cuddle?"

"Perfect prescription," Nathan agreed, managing an endearingly crooked smile. "And for what it's worth, I'm really sorry about the timing and not getting to show you what an evil authority figure I can be in bed."

Jones laughed, wrapping her arms around him. "Newsflash, Nathan. This love thing? It's not all about the sex."

He made a slightly strangled sound and held her close, "Come here."

Jones knew it was time, and she was nervous. She did her best to relax and appear casual, but she couldn't help but check the time again on her cell phone. Around her the crowds had thinned out, and the lull of the afternoon made things quiet at the mall.

She was just putting away her cell phone when a familiar figure stepped into the food court and headed her way.

Casually Susan Gardner slid into the seat opposite her and set her purse down, sighing. "Sorry; we had a last minute customer who was really picky about his particular shade of amber tint on his Tom Hilfigers."

Relieved, Jones nodded. "Did you make the sale?"

"Yep." The girl sat back and deliberately rested her hands on the table and Jones appreciated that Suze was _trying_ to relax. "So. I guess we need to talk, huh?"

"Susan," Jones began, quietly. "I've rehearsed in my mind what I wanted to say over and over and now it seems incredibly stupid. Tell you what—I'll go with one statement, and if you have any questions, you ask. Fair enough?"

Slowly, Suze nodded, her gaze steady. Jones saw so much of Nathan in her face that it was uncanny. "Okay."

Jones cleared her throat. "I love your dad. I didn't come to Western Summit looking for a relationship; I just ended a rotten one with a jerk back in DC and the last thing I expected was to get involved with anyone else. But---" she sighed, "your dad has this sneaky way of being incredibly wonderful. He . . . I can't really define it, but he's kind and funny and intelligent and adorable . . ." she trailed off, red in the face as Suze grinned.

"You've got it as bad as he does," the girl laughed, and then grew sober again. "Yeah, Dad's all that and more, I agree."

For a moment they both were silent, the pause slightly awkward, but friendly. Jones cleared her throat. "I love him," she repeated in a slightly helpless voice. "But _because _I love him, I'm not about to step into his life without your . . . blessing, Susan. Before anything else, he's _your_ father."

Susan looked up, startled. "My blessing? Don't you think that's a little . . . heavy, Miss Jones?"

"That's the first thing that needs to change," Jones sighed. "Call me Jones. And yes, I do. Your dad is your dad; you're always going to be parent and child, Susan. You've been through a _lot_ together, and I'm not about to dismiss that, or disrespect that."

Susan was silent, looking down at the tabletop, her shoulders slightly hunched, and Jones fought to keep from fidgeting. The moment stretched out, and just when Jones though she'd blurt something stupid to fill the void, Susan looked up, her expression bleak.

"My dad," she murmured in a soft voice, "has been through more shit than most people see in a lifetime. He had to deal with my mom for years, and tried to keep our family together waay after we all should have broken up. He got hurt—a lot—and for a long time I thought I was going to lose _him_ in a bottle."

Jones said nothing, waiting. Susan leaned forward, putting her elbows on the table, and her expression grew a bit flintier. "He and I; we've had our fights. He isn't too crazy about me smoking, and I know he's worried that I'm going to do drugs. Dads worry about that shit."

A nod from Jones. Susan managed a little smile in acknowledgement. "Just getting out of administration did a load of good for him though. That, and the run-ins with Charlie. I know he's trying to stay sober and sane these days, and that it's working. And I know," she drew in a breath, "That Dad's been really, really . . . happy . . . since he met you."

"I'm glad."

"Me too," Susan sighed. "He's a good guy, and I _want_ him to be happy. He _deserves_ to be happy. But—" Susan locked eyes with her. "If you hurt him, Jones . . ."

Very deliberately, Jones nodded, her mouth dry. She wasn't afraid of Susan; she respected the intensity and love in the girl's eyes and blinked, feeling a rush of matching emotion deep within herself. "If I ever deliberately hurt him, I'd deserve whatever you want to do to me."

Susan held her gaze, searching it, and whatever she found there must have satisfied her, because she gave a short, hard nod. "Good. I'm not saying it's not a little weird, you know. He's been humming a lot, and sleeping better because I swear you're totally tiring him out, but in a _good_ way . . ."

That made Jones laugh and blush at the same time. "Um, yeah. That's not all _my_ fault."

"I know," Susan admitted with a toothy grin. "I figure I get the drive from somewhere, and it's definitely not Mom, TMI as that is. Still, I have to ask, Jones—what's the long-term here? Because things are going to change when I'm off to college, and I just . . . I want to be ready. I don't want to push, but if I can . . . get used to it . . ."

"I don't know, Susan--"

"—Call me Suze."

"—Suze. Painting it by ear here," Jones admitted. "I'm not in a rush to do anything more than enjoy getting to love your dad right now."

"Are you two planning on kids?" came the blunt question.

"No." it was out quickly, firmly.

Suze looked curious."Seriously?"

"Yeah," Jones nodded. "We haven't talked about it—God, there's a_ lot_ we haven't talked about yet—but on this, I'm firm. I hope that's not too much of a disappointment to you."

To her credit, Suze cocked her head, looking so much like Nathan that Jones blinked away a quick pang. "I . . . dunno. My dad might be good with a baby. He did okay with me."

"He did incredible with you," Jones replied softly. "All the more reason not to jinx things. I've got some . . . genetic issues in my family, Suze. My dad's a Little Person."


	14. Chapter 14

In reply, Jones fished out her wallet and pulled a photo from it; she and Honey towered over her beaming father against a backdrop of the Lincoln Memorial. "Yep. He's got Fairbank's disease and he's under four feet four inches, so he falls into the profile. That's him and his girlfriend, Honey."

"She's . . ." Suze spluttered, but Jones snorted.

"Six foot one, yeah. True love finds a way, so they tell me. Honey came to work as a temp when dad's old secretary retired about five years ago, and they hit it off from day one, but it took a *lot* for Honey to convince my dad that they could make it work."

"And they have?" came the honest question.

Jones gave a happy nod. "Oh yeah. I know Dad's planning on popping the question this Christmas, and I think Honey's ready."

They talked for almost two hours, and in that time Jones felt a new appreciation for this clever, insightful girl. Suze was ferociously independent, but there were little flashes of sweetness in her, and a bubbly sense of ironic humor that Jones enjoyed tremendously. By the time they both got up from the table, the hug they shared felt comfortable instead of awkward. Suze smiled and shouldered her purse.

"So, okay. I know it's still early days, but this is good."

Jones nodded in agreement. "Yep. No rush on anything, and I wanted to say thanks. I'm glad you were willing to meet me and talk a bit. Nathan loves you tremendously, Suze, and that's important to me too."

The girl ducked her head, slightly embarrassed and grinned. "Yeah, he's not bad, for a dad, you know? So—what are you getting him for Christmas?"

Jones blinked. They began walking down the mall together, towards the parking lot. "I have . . . no idea. Any suggestions?"

"Oh no," Suze laughed, "Not me! You're the one who knows his interests, right? I just stick with ties, books and the occasional photograph."

"Sure, take all the easy stuff," Jones protested. "Okay, okay, I'll figure something out. How about you?"

"For me?" Suze looked startled. "You don't have to do that!"

"Never mind; I'll ask Charlie," Jones teased. "He's sure to be a font of help."

"Movies," Suze babbled. "Anything with Daniel Day-Lewis or David Tennant, okay?"

"Noted," Jones smiled.

The tree was lovely, if somewhat short and wide. Nathan tried to look at it without laughing, and managed a straight expression most of the time. Next to him, Jones was practically bouncing with glee, an action he approved of heartily. The crisp air held the promise of snow, and other tree shoppers were moving around the lot, examining the arboreal offerings gravely.

"I want it," Jones announced her breath a white plume as she spoke.

"You're sure?"

"Yes. I want a tree that looks like the Pillsbury Dough Boy and this one fits the bill," she assured Nathan, who blinked a little. He looked at her over his glasses, amused at her enthusiasm.

Turned on by it, actually.

Jones was an adorable vision at the moment, dressed in a denim miniskirt and woolly pink leggings that fashionably showcased her knockout legs right down to the girlish Mary Janes on her feet. Nathan liked that she had a matching scarf of pink over her green down vest. He wasn't as in the know about fashion the way Suze was, but the ensemble was very cute and made him lust for Jones in a warm and slightly pervy way.

"Pillsbury Dough Boy?" he demanded, hoping to see her jump again.

"Green, plump and full of goodness," she nodded, clapping her mittens together. "This one, Mr. Gardner, oh please!"

He flashed her an indulgent smile and motioned to one of the wandering salespeople, easily identifiable by the Jolly Tree Emporium vest.

"Hep you?" the tall, mournful man with the tattered Santa hat asked.

"Yes, we'd like to get this tree."

The man stared at it for a moment, then nodded. "Douglas fir. This'll hold up good if you keep it watered. Pine of the lumberjacks, you know."

"I didn't know," Nathan admitted, permitting the man to reach into the bushy branches and heft the tree up. The man gave a shrug.

"That's okay, a lotta folks don't. It's a history thing."

Jones came over and linked her arm through Nathan's leaning in to whisper. "And _you _a history teacher, too."

"Hey, the only things I know about lumberjacks are that Paul Bunyan was one and Monty Python did a song about them." Nathan grumbled comfortably.

This made Jones laugh again, and she patted his arm with her other hand. "There, there—I love you _just _the same."

Nathan gave a little happy shiver, and squeezed her arm in return. "Still blown away by that," he confessed in a whisper, then went to help load the tree on the car.

The two of them tried to sing carols on the way home, but Jones had trouble keeping a tune, and Nathan kept laughing at her mangled lyrics.

"We three kings of Orient are, tried to smoke a rubber cigar? Where the hell did you get THAT from?" he snorted, making the turn for her house.

Jones snickered. "I had a misspent childhood, as I'm sure you've suspected."

"No!" Nathan countered. "I refuse to believe you were anything but angelic and naïve."

"Not so. In fact, I was banned from the Christmas pageant for two years running," she confessed. "Something about sticking my halo around my butt, but I'm not totally sure."

"And you were *how* old?" Nathan demanded, grinning. He'd parked and was struggling to unload the tree.

"Oh age is just a number," came the vague reply. "Want some cocoa?"

Together they managed to wrestle the tree into the house, and to the corner spot near the fireplace. Jones watered it, and brought out the vacuum for the stray needles while Nathan eyed the strands of lights with an almost professional eye. "Ooooh, blinkies. You could have a heck of a strobe effect with all these."

"Hypnosis," she chuckled back. "That really _could_ be dangerous."

Nathan turned his head and gave her his best super-villain look. "You _will_ be in my power once I get these on the tree. Save us both time, Miss Jones. Strip now and I will spare your buttons and zippers."

"Never, Doctor EvilGardner," Jones murmured back, holding a carton defensively in front of her. "The goodness of Christmas will save me; it's the season of giving!"

"Oh you'll be giving. Giving IN to me," he assured her, arching an eyebrow in only the way he could. "Trust me on_ that_ one. In fact, I'll be getting into your stockings shortly."

That made her giggle, and glad to have had the last word, Nathan turned back to the lights. He unraveled and hung them, his skill yet again evident, and by the time he was done, Jones had her ornaments laid out neatly.

All twenty of them.

"I don't have many," Jones murmured, looking down. "Usually I get small trees. Because of Dad."

Nathan gave a nod; the news about her father's condition was still a bit of a surprise, but her explanation made some sense. Nevertheless, he looked at her and shook his head. "More. We need more if we want to justice to this tree. Come on, get your coat—I know just the place."

The craft boutique at the Maple Street Middle school was in full swing, and Jones marveled at the collection of ornaments, gift boxes, stockings, centerpieces and other holiday goodies out on display. Some were efforts of love rather than skill, but all of them were set out with cheer, and it was impossible to resist the kids, who competitively strove for her attention as she wandered from table to table.

Nathan made his way to a collection of breadcraft ornaments and selected three gingerbread men with crooked smiles. "What do you think?"

"Nice," Jones agreed, and the trio went into a bag after being paid for. A little further on was a table full of ceramic candy canes.

"We'll draw your name on them too!" a student announced, Sharpie marker at the ready.

"Yes, we'll take two," Jones decided, and pointed to a pair. The student, a small girl with slightly buck teeth picked them up.

"Okay, what do you want on them?"

"Artist," Nathan murmured, "Artist on one of them."

The student looked puzzled, but Jones smiled. "And on the other one? Hero, please."

The puzzled look became a 'you two are weird' look, but the student bent over the candy canes and slowly printed out the names, adding little flourishes and twinkles around them. When they were finished, Jones picked them up and Nathan smiled at her.

"Hero?"

"You are," she whispered back. "For so many reasons."

Nathan looked away, moved beyond words, and he reached out to take her hand, squeezing it lightly.

By the time the returned with two bags of ornaments, dusk was falling, and Jones was fighting nervousness. Nathan ushered her inside and she flicked on lights, relaxing as rooms lit up one after another.

"So—pizza or Chinese?" she called to him, but Nathan was already in her kitchen, looking in the fridge, feeling confident.

"Neither. I see the makings of some first class omelets here, so let me feed you, okay?"

He heard the delight in her tone, "Oh yes, pleeeeease! I'm getting so spoiled here!"

"Not really," Nathan quipped back. "You're doing the dishes."

"Deal." He felt her slip into the kitchen and press up against his back; suddenly dinner seemed to take on a secondary importance, particularly when Jones licked his ear.

"Keep that up and I'll make you sit on Santa's lap, little girl," he warned, bliss surging through him.

"Mmmmmmm, promise?"

It was the most perverted fun he'd had in a long time, Nathan decided. He was old enough and wise enough to steer clear of the female students who had crushes on him—and there had been a few over the years—and yet Jones was willing, God, MORE than willing to play along.

Nathan looked over the top of his glasses at her, and patted his lap. "Come have a seat, Miss."

She sauntered over, adding a flounce to her step, and bent, offering a view of her cleavage along the top of her blouse. "Yes sir," Jones coyly replied, and slid in a warm straddle, her skirt riding up high. Nathan noted that the stockings were thigh-highs, and his pulse jumped, along with something else. She wore something small and silky underneath; the warm weight of her brought forth a stifled groan.

"Tell me what you'd like for Christmas, little miss," he purred, his hands moving to her waist to steady her.

Jones reached out and played with the buttons of his shirt, licking her lips. "Well, I want something big," she confessed shyly. "Something I can ride and have fun on."

"Like a . . . pony?" he urged, fighting hard not to laugh. Both of them were well-aware of the press of his erection against her ass by this point.

"No, not a pony," Jones murmured, bending to nuzzle Nathan's cheek. "I want something . . . harder than that."

"You're turning me into a dirty old man," he muttered, half-embarrassed and half-amused. Jones squirmed, her smile against his in a soft kiss before she pulled back.

"And you're turning me into a sex kitten. I sure as hell don't mind if _you _don't, Nathan," Jones confessed. "I know it's silly, but like I told you before, I sort of like being able to turn you on, and be the way that I can't be in public or at school . . . it's just for fun, you know?"

"Yeah," he groaned, delighted. "Yeah, I know, sweetheart. I just didn't want you to think that I spend my days lusting for kids or anything."

Jones reached down and caught one of his hands, bringing it up to her chest. "Oh I know. I'm a big girl, Evil Doctor Gardner—wanna see?"

"Yes," he assured her, the hot gleam back in his eyes, "I need to know exactly what kind of girl you are if Santa's going to bring you anything this year."

His tone made Jones giggle and she began to undo the buttons of his shirt. "OH I want lots of goodies. I want new sheets and lotions and some new panties because my old ones aren't pretty—"

"I'd better check those, just to be sure . . ." Nathan announced, and shifted her back slightly, moving his hands along her thighs under her skirt to reveal the plain white silk that tautly covered her mound. "Ohhhhmyyyy."

"Yeah," Jones looked down and pretended to be sad. "I want pretty ones with lace and bows and maybe even flowers . . ."

Delicately, he ran his forefinger along the front panel, circling gently through the thin material in a playful caress. "They seem . . . small, too. Maybe I'd better take them so I can be sure of the right size . . ."

"Mmmm, yes," Jones replied thickly, her gaze soft and hot. "And if I put my skirt down, nobody will know that I'm on your lap without my panties, right?"

"That's right," he nodded, glasses slipping down his nose. "It will be very private."

Matters become much more intense after that. Nathan had never realized how erotic a recliner could be for making love, and how utterly sexy it was to have a half-dressed Jones bracing herself over him with her bra pushed up and naked under her skirt.

Then he caught her ass in his hands and pulled her down onto him in one gloriously deep stroke, feeling a rush of love and lust so powerful that he gasped just as Jones gave a sweet cry of pleasure. The recliner creaked a bit, but Nathan didn't care because the sweet bounty of woman covering him was all he could concentrate on. He paused, tipping his face up, and Jones kissed him hungrily, her arms coming to circle around his shoulders, her hands caressing his nape.

And it was good, making love in the sparkle of Christmas lights. The heat and slickness and quickening push of body with body melding together left him almost breathless as his orgasm began to build. He tried to hold back, but when Jones pressed her lips against his and shuddered, Nathan groaned, "loveyousomuch!" and came, hard, the pleasure as rich and slow as a wave of caramel.


	15. Chapter 15

He left around eleven; neither of them wanted that, but Jones reminded him that leaving Suze home alone was wrong, and grumbling, he agreed.

"Sometimes I really don't want to be a grown-up," Nathan grumbled, pulling on his socks and searching for his shoes.

"I know, I know," Jones soothed him. "But you wouldn't be thrilled if Suze spent the night somewhere without arranging it with _you_ first, right?"

His expression made it clear she had a point, and Jones moved closer to help him button his shirt; the warm masculine scent of him- the mix of pheromones and sweet body musk making her smile.

"I love you," she whispered. "We really do have to make some plans for Christmas, Nathan."

"I love _you_," came his quick reply, "and yes, we do. Let me talk to the kid and see what's on the table. Oh, and those things you mentioned?" he asked, "Did you really want those from Santa?"

Jones grinned. "Quid pro quo, Doctor EvilGardner—I need to know some items _you'd_ like."

"Oh I dunno," he told her, and his grin was utterly charming. "I'm pretty content with what showed up in my life starting in September."

"Nathan-!" she spluttered, smiling and letting herself be swept into his hug. He laughed into her hair.

"Hmmm, well, I could use a new bathrobe. My old one is . . ."

"Old?"

"And embarrassing to my daughter," Nathan admitted. "She keeps threatening to 'lose' it when doing laundry."

Jones laughed softly. "Maybe I should get you _both_ new ones."

"Fine, but no matching numbers, okay? That's just . . ." she watched him shake his head at the imagery.

She stepped out to his car with him, the floodlights bright in the darkness, and kissed him once more at the car door. "Okay, get home and get some sleep, Mr. Gardner," Jones told him tenderly. "I'll see you soon."

She watched him drive off, and went into the house again, curling up on the still-warm recliner, and watched the tree for a while, then fell asleep in front of it.

The last week before Christmas vacation proved to be more fun than expected. Jones threw out any serious lesson plans and chose quick lessons in Origami, helping students make beautiful cranes and frogs and other whimsical animals out of holiday wrapping paper. Most enjoyed it; some, like Charlie proved to be genuine artists at the form, and soon her classroom windows were decorated with long strings of gorgeous animals.

Across the hall, Nathan was showing slides of Valley Forge and discussing the hardships of the Continental Army as part of a review. His lecture style was quick and easy, and Jones could hear snippets of it periodically when both of them had their classroom doors open.

The entire staff seemed as geared for vacation as the students, and talk in the teacher's lounge centered on trips and Newt was sharing his plans to go ice fishing with anyone who would listen, droning on about the joys of a solitary cabin on one of the many lakes in Minnesota. Jones shot him a skeptical look.

"Why? You can get fish just as easily from the store, Newt. In fact, you can get it already cleaned and ready to cook, I hear."

"That's not the same," he grumbled, and added in a low voice, "Gwen's promised me she'll pan-sear anything I catch in butter and herbs Provencal."

Jones laughed softly. "This is about _cooking?"_

"It's more than that," Newt protested, "But in part—the bigger part I admit—it's about cooking, yeah. She's getting good at it lately. We're thinking about doing a foodie road trip for spring break."

"Wow," Jones marveled, "Cool. So she's going with you to Minnesota?"

"Oh yeah," Newt nodded, his face slightly pink. "First time, actually. Here's hoping we don't drive each other nuts when I'm not fishing. So what are you and Gardner doing for the holidays, and don't give me that coy 'we don't have any plans' BS."

"Um, we don't," she confessed. "That is, we're both sort of new at this, so nothing's been decided."

"I know in years past he's spend time at his sister's—those years after the divorce," Newt nodded. "But you know, I would like to point out that if I'm going out of town, I'd need a house sitter."

"I don't think Nathan needs the job—" Jones commented, but Newt rolled his eyes.

"No, but his _daughter_ might. She'd be responsible for taking care of Beau and watering Gwen's—er, _my_ plants, and taping Iron Chef and the monster truck rallies. I'd pay good money for a mature, responsible caretaker to make sure the mail gets collected and nobody breaks in."

"Hmmmm," Jones smirked. "Sounds like a good opportunity for Suze to help out."

"Yep," Newt nodded, fighting a grin. "Not that anyone else would ever take advantage of the situation at all. I just figured that Ms. Gardner would appreciate a chance at independent living for two weeks before heading off to college in the spring. I'm a pretty selfless guy that way."

"Meaning you're going to hold it over Nathan the next time you need a favor," Jones predicted, but she was smiling.

"Exactly. I may need help with re-varnishing my deck this spring, and Gardner's patient with that sort of icky homeowner chore. We'll negotiate it later."

Jones was tempted to share the information with Nathan, but since his classroom doorway had been decorated with mistletoe, she wisely avoided popping in during the school day. To be evil, however, on the last day of school, she did choose to wear a particularly dangerous pair of open-toed green velvet high heels, slipping them on after wearing boots in from the parking lot.

When he glanced her way during first period, Jones made a production out of standing in the doorway before she deliberately dropped a whiteboard marker. When she finally straightened up, Nathan was frozen in place, staring at her feet for a long, hungry moment before forcibly pulling himself back to the lesson at hand.

During passing period, he was in her classroom like a shot.

"You, Miss Jones, are SO getting coal this year," he hissed, forcing his gaze upwards. "C-O-A-L in case you missed that."

"They went with my dress," Jones pointed out innocently.

"I wouldn't know, since I haven't looked that high yet," Nathan replied tersely, a twinkle in his eyes. "Did I not mention this thing I have for your feet?"

Jones was spared a reply since students were beginning to walk into her room. She coquettishly smiled at Nathan. "Thank you Mr. Gardener for reminding me about the dress code. Are you aware of the mistletoe outside your door?"

The school day finally ended, and Jones waited until the majority of students had cleared out. Her desk held a few cards and candy canes given to her, and she scooped them into a tote, along with her lesson plan book and a few last minute catalogs and notes. Carefully she left a small present for the custodian, locked up and looked over at Nathan's door.

It stood open, and she heard him moving around, talking with someone. Peeking in, she smiled. Susan smiled back, blushing a little.

"Would you please explain to dad that I'll be fine starting the house sitting tonight? I'm only going to be two streets over; I could walk home in ten minutes."

"She's got a point, Nathan," Jones nodded. "Not like she's going to Venice."

"Fine," Nathan grumbled. "But I'd like us to have dinner first, and then we can walk you over, okay? Just . . . pander to your old man this once."

"Fine," Susan agreed, not rolling her eyes, but grinning just the same. "What are you making?"

"Tacos," Nathan replied. "And before you ask with chicken AND beef and I've even got Texas salsa to go with it."

"Yum," both Jones and Susan said at the same time, making him smirk lightly.

"Okay then. Dinner at five, and afterwards we'll walk you over."

"Agreed," Susan nodded. "Gotta run—shopping with Ellen and then I need to talk to Charlie about the movies for tomorrow. See you at five," she darted over to peck her father's cheek and then gave Jones a quick hug before bouncing out the door, backpack over her shoulder. Jones watched her go and smiled.

"Bet she's shopping for YOU."

Nathan closed the lid of his briefcase and looked up, his smile warm. "Or you. Or Charlie. Oh, and we've been invited to his place for Boxing Day brunch. That okay with you?"

Jones blinked. "Um, okay. I don't know his family—"

"He lives with his mother, Marilyn, and she's . . ." Nathan paused, and Jones watched him search for the right adjective, "Um . . . a bit . . . scatterbrained."

"Scatterbrained?" Jones echoed, startled. Nathan wasn't the sort to speak disparagingly of anyone.

He gave an embarrassed shrug. "Perhaps 'ditzy' would be better. Seriously, Just—I'm pretty sure she talks not only to her plants but also her car and her kitchen appliances and accessories as well. She's a very sweet woman, but not completely in touch with planet Earth. That being said, she loves Charlie and by extension loves Suze, so I consider her to be a good person for that alone. Charlie's dad-"

"I know," Jones cut in. "Suze mentioned it to me. I feel for the boy."

"Yeah," Nathan agreed. "Anyway, Marilyn will set a nice table, I'm sure, and we'll get a chance to . . . be a couple."

Jones arched an eyebrow at his slightly smug tone. "Oh really?"

He moved closer, slipping an arm around her, the other lightly gripping his briefcase. "Oh yes. That's all right with you?"

Jones pretended to consider it, her gaze drifting upward towards the mistletoe. "I might need persuading, Mr. Gardner."

"Mmmmm," he smiled, nuzzling her cheek. "Well, let's see. I'd like you to come stay with me for the holidays. We'll sleep in, and relax, and lounge and . . . find some way to keep ourselves busy."

Jones shivered pleasurably. "I could be talked into it," she murmured, and turned her face to kiss him.

Dinner started awkwardly, but by the time Nathan served up the tacos and fussed a little with the toppings, both Suze and Jones were chattering, and he felt the knot in his stomach relax a bit.

He wanted things to work out; it wasn't a lot to ask, and it meant more than he wanted to admit. Nathan finally sat down, pouring himself a glass of milk and listening as Jones described a Christmas festival she'd been to, years ago.

"Millions of lights," she smiled. "More lights than any single celebration needed, but against the snow they were SO beautiful."

"Sounds like it," Suze sighed. "We've got that winter carnival over at the city college, but it's nothing huge—some snow sculptures and booths and stuff."

"Snow sculptures?" Jones perked up, and Nathan laughed.

"Artists—they like all mediums," he pointed out to his daughter. "Is it open tonight?"

"Yeah," Suze nodded, "Charlie and I went yesterday and had some hot chocolate there. There's a sledding hill too, and some cheesy booths if you want to blow your money, dad."

"I might be coerced into it," he harrumphed, looked over at Jones, who giggled.

They walked Suze over to Nathan's house; the booming barks of Beau greeted them as they made their way up the porch steps.

"Dog," Nathan told Jones unnecessarily. "Blood hound. He'll lick you to death."

The sun was starting to set, and Jones nodded, her grip on Nathan's hand tight. The three of them stepped into Newt's house and Suze flicked on the lights while holding off on the enthusiastic Beau, who was delightedly sniffing everyone, ears flapping as he chuffed each shoe and pant leg.

"Hey Beau," Suze murmured, tugging him by the collar. "Behave, dude."

Jones patted the dog, who seemed to like her and licked her palms. Nathan snickered, but let himself be hand-washed as well. "Well, I see Newt's security system is as good as ever."

"Dogs are a good deterrent," Jones agreed. "They can alert you to a lot you might miss, and make for pretty good company most of the time."

"Beau's a big old baby," Suze giggled. "Aren't you, buddy?" she stroked the dog's head affectionately and set down her backpack. "We're good, guys, really. Coach stocked the fridge and gave me a schedule of what to tape, what to water and who to feed, so . . ."

"Okay, okay, we get the hint," Nathan rolled his eyes. "But if you have any problems, Suze-Q, you call, hear me?"

"Daaaaad," she smirked back, and hugged him hard. Jones was slightly startled and then touched when Suze turned and hugged her as well, lightly.

"Okay, we're off. Dinner Christmas Eve, and what time on Christmas day?" Nathan asked.

"About ten or so," Suze's smile twisted a little. "I don't think I'm up for that 'crack of dawn' thing anymore."

"Thank God," Nathan replied. "Take care sweetheart."

He and Jones headed out and waved to Suze and Beau, who watched them from the picture window of the living room.

Jones looked up at the darkening sky and shivered. Nathan slipped his arm through hers, and handed her the big flashlight. "Here."

She smiled.


End file.
